


Where The Heart Lies

by rad_sad



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Gen, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2018-04-05 23:36:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 22
Words: 164,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4199355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rad_sad/pseuds/rad_sad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amidst the war ravaging the land of Westeros, a lone Stark must find her way home, to her true family.</p><p>And yet.</p><p>[NOT abandoned, updated sporadically due to work, school and life]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bull and the Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> \- I do not own any of the characters, places or story lines (unless stated otherwise) mentioned in the work; they all belong to their owner: G.R.R Martin  
> \- Mostly original dialogue.  
> \- A work of fiction previously known as "The Bull and the Wolf."  
> \- comments are very much appreciated!  
> \- for any more information, check out my profile!

**_Chapter One._ **

Arya's shoes bit at her toes and squashed the side of her feet. Cramps were beginning to burn and her eyelids were threatening to drop. Arya couldn't remember the last time she slept a deep sleep; she couldn't remember what a proper bed felt like or what it was to be clean from dirt, sweat and grime. She fingered her brutally short hair as the uneven and sharp ends pricked the back of her neck and stung her cheeks.  _When was the last time my hair was washed?_ Arya thought, trying to ignore how stringy and greasy the strands were as they laid in uneven clumps on top of her head and gathered in groups around her eyes.

She could hear the chatter of the other boys and men behind her, laughing and bantering together; Arya, however, was alone and didn't know how she would talk to them. What if they were to find out she was a girl? Arya glanced down and saw that her chest was as flat as a boy's and her clothes bagged around her body as to not give away a hint of her femininity.

Still, despite her guise of a boy and the fact that no one here knew she was Arya Stark who was on the run, Arya couldn't help but be scared.  _Fear cuts deeper than swords._ A small hand went to her sword, Needle, in hope of gaining some comfort that should anyone come and attack her, she could swing it out and stick them with it just like she did with that fat stable boy. Arya remembered how he bled, how his eyes almost popped out of his skull and how he begged her to take it out from his fat belly.

She gripped the sword tighter; it reminded her of Jon and how he would ruffle her hair and call her 'little sister'. This sword had protected her just like Jon would and it would continue to do so. It protected her in the alleys of Flea Bottom after she fled from the Red Keep; it protected her from when Hot Pie and Lommy Greenhands tried to intimidate her into giving it up and it would protect her through her journey to Winterfell.

But it didn't stop her father from getting his head chopped off.

Angry tears stung her eyes as the shouts of the crowd echoed in her ears; the rancid smell as Yoren grabbed her and held her to him as to make sure she wouldn't see what was happening. But she heard the sickening sound as Ice, her father's sword that he had used to behead the Night's Watch deserters, sliced through Lord Eddard Stark's neck and then the  _thump_ when the head hit the ground. She had never felt so terrified in her life.  _Fear cuts deeper than swords._ The pain of Yoren's knife chopping away Arya's hair and his insistence that she was now a boy and to be called Arry added to her hurts. She was not allowed to be Arya Stark, she was not allowed to be a girl; she was to be a lowborn, orphan boy with no name.

More tears gathered and hinted of betrayal to fall down her cheeks.  _I will not cry; I am not some stupid child. I am not Rickon or Sansa. I am Arya Stark; I am a wolf._

But she wasn't. Her wolf was gone and she was all alone now with no family and her father dead. But she would not cry. She was nearly a woman now and tears were not going to solve anything.  _Fear cuts deeper than swords._ Arya's mind was stuck on Syrio Forel's voice and it continued to play in her mind over and over.  _I am a wolf,_ Arya repeated to herself,  _I shall bare my teeth and my claws to anyone who harms me._ She had to be brave and unafraid if she were to survive this long journey back to Winterfell. She had hoped somewhat Yoren would allow her to travel to the Wall in hopes of seeing Jon again. Arya longed to see her half brother, to have him smile at her, muss up her hair and for her to complain before a smile would creep onto her face to grin back at Jon.

Arya wished that she could run back to Winterfell or tell Yoren to hurry up; Arya glanced over her shoulder and, even from this distance through the trees, she could spy the Red Keep glaring against the high sun. Had it not been so long that she had been sleeping and eating within there? She tried to imagine what good food tasted like, or the touch of silk sheets against her skin. But it faded from her mind and in place was the taste of pigeons and rats that she had also traded for food, and the feather bed with silk were now stone cobbles. The Red Keep was now splattered with the blood of the North and with the blood of her father.

Her eyes had been so trained on what was behind that Arya did not see what was in front of her. Arya slammed into what felt like a wall, causing her to stumble back; she panicked thinking that she would get in trouble for annoying one of the men or he would slap her. Instead, when she looked up, Arya found it to be the boy who had defended her from when Hot Pie and Lommy were cornering her. He had a mop of black hair, darker than coal, and his icy blue eyes stood out in contrast. He was tall, she noted, much taller than her and he looked stronger than Jon. The  _Bull_ Lommy nicknamed him after his bull helmet. In truth, he scared her a different sort of fright; he was big and tall and strong and Arya was almost sure that if she should offend or annoy him, he could squash her easily.

"S - sorry," Arya muttered, holding a stare with him. She was meant to keep her head down, to not attract anyone's attention so that when the time came no one would notice that she had left to return to Winterfell. It was almost as if the boy knew she was scared but Arya knew she wasn't concealing it very well from how wide her eyes were and from the death grip on her sword.

"It's all right," he replied. "There's no need to act so afraid." Arya's grip on Needle lessened only slightly.  _Fear cuts deeper than swords._ He continued to walk on and she hurried up her steps to walk alongside him. His slow, long strides were three of Arya's small, quickened steps.

"You're Gendry, aren't you?" Arya guessed; she had heard the others speaking in low, hushed voices behind her and Arya had picked up the name more than once, realising that the boy with the bull helmet's name. Arya often walked alongside or behind a group of boys and men, listening to their conversation whereas the boy, Gendry, kept to himself and never spoke to anyone.

"Is that a question, or a statement?" Gendry replied as he stared straight ahead. The dead leaves on the road crunched underneath his feet; the forest almost reminded Arya of the godswood at Winterfell; the leaves rustling gave her a sense of relief but it was not the same. She wished that Nymeria would let out a howl, or Bran would appear with his wolf trotting at his side. Arya wondered what Bran had named his wolf; he had left his wolf nameless before he fell from the tower.

Arya spied the bull helmet; Gendry gripped one of the metal horns tightly within his hand, as though he was expecting one of the men behind then to run and steal it right from under him. And it was likely to happen since their travelling companions were made up of thieves, pickpockets, murderers, rapists and people with no one and no place to go.

"Did you make that yourself?" Arya questioned, watching as the grey metal glinted in the faint rays of the sun. She could spy her warped reflection within it, truly seeing just how much of a boy she looked like with er short hair and the dirt smudged on her face. She wiped her face against the sleeve of her stained and sweat smelling shirt but it didn't help.

Gendry stared down at her from the corner of her eye. All of a sudden, she felt like she was truly a lowborn orphan with no family or money as Yoren told her that she was.  _I am Arya Stark of Winterfell,_ Arya chastised herself.  _I have blood of the wolf._

"Yes, I did," he replied yet again;  _He doesn't speak much,_ Arya noted as her legs began to burn from how quickly she was walking. But every step was a step further from King's Landing. Gendry seemed a brooding type of boy, with a scowl tugging constantly on his lips and his eyebrows knotting together. Arya had yet to hear him laugh or to see him smile. He was a lone wolf with no pack.

"You don't talk much, do you?" Arya questioned, almost a lilting tone in her voice. Her arms swung in arcs beside her, causing an ache to grow within her biceps. "How are you supposed to make friends on the Wall if you don't talk much?"

Arya always found it easy to make friends; she would talk as easy with the cook's son as she could with Jon or Bran. She would play with stable boys in the mud, causing the scrutiny of Sansa and her friends because, according to them, she was supposed to act like a lady. But being a lady was boring; all they ever did was gossip and do each other's hair and talk about boys.

"And you talk  _too_  much," Gendry retorted. "How are you goin' to make friends if you annoy people?"

"I don't annoy people," Arya scoffed at him, her eyebrows knitting together. Arya had always got on well with others, at least she believed she did. She wasn't like Sansa, who would turn her pretty face away from playing and sword fighting;  _It isn't what a lady does,_  Sansa's voice said in her mind as a memory of when Arya had asked her to come play with Bran in the mist of morning rain what felt years and years ago. "And I do have friends!"

"Really? Because you're annoying me now," he shot back, his eyebrows raising. A frown tugged at Arya's lips. She almost felt like a little child again, wanting to stomp her foot and turn away to march to her room but if she did that, she'd just end up in a midst of trees. "And I don't see you with any friends right now."

Arya scoffed again. "I don't see you with any friends right now," Arya said. "And just because I'm not with my friends, doesn't mean I don't have any. I have plenty of friends."

It had been a long time Arya had spoken to someone without being scared they would know who she was. It was a relief, something she had not felt in a long time. But Arya was still wary; Gendry didn't seem like a person who would rat on her but he also was not someone she could fully trust. He was a lot taller and more stronger than the other boys, Arya only stood only just below his thick shoulders. Gendry kept his hands clenched into fists constantly by his side as though he was waiting for someone to come up behind and attack. But the others were too cowardly or too stupid enough to do so. She doubted it was the latter.

"What ever you say, boy," Gendry replied with a smirk on his lips.

"My name is . . . Arry," Arya hesitated, hoping that he would not catch on to her slight pause. "My name is Arry not 'boy'." Arya's legs hurt from how fast she walked and how long her strides were in order to keep up. Gendry looked down at Arya, a glint in his ice blue eyes.  _I've seen those eyes before._

"Tell me,  _Arry_ ," there was a tone in Gendry's voice that Arya thought to be amusement but she shook her head. Gendry had as much of a humour as a dead rat and she had seen plenty of those, even killed more than she would have liked. "How is it that a low born  _boy_  like you managed to get a hold of a well crafted sword like that?"

"It was a gift," Arya stressed, repeating her words earlier. It wasn't a lie; she just couldn't tell from who or why. He would become suspicious and would start to ask questions, which she couldn't have. But Arya knew Gendry wasn't stupid as the rest of them; for that, she hated him. But not really, she knew, because she did not know him enough to hate him. So far, in fact, he had been pleasant enough company after the people she's been surrounded by in Flea Bottom. He was far more pleasant than the others within the group by far; so far he hadn't intimidated her nor bullied her just because she was small and the youngest.

"A gift that was not given?" Arya knew now he was teasing her. He had to be as the smirk upon his lips had grown. "Is that the reason you've decided to join the Night's Watch?"

Arya scowled at him, offended that he considered her a thief. "I told you, I didn't steal it! I am  _not_ a thief!"

"I apologise; I didn't know you hated people asking so many questions." The smirk on his lips had turn to a smile now, revealing that he was, of course, mocking her. An embarrassed flush of blood bloomed across her grimy and dirt streaked cheeks. Arya let out a huff, crossing her arms over her boyish chest and turned away from Gendry. She wanted to push him into the dirt and to pout but she couldn't. Instead, she let the flush turn darker as Arya heard the first time Gendry laughed.

* * *

 

Faces began to blur within Arya's mind. She couldn't remember what it felt like to be hugged by her father; the soft touch of Lady Catelyn Stark had vanished; Jon's smile no longer burnt like a thousand suns within her mind and the ghost of his hand mussing up her hair and calling her 'little sister' was seeping away from her mind. She thought about Winterfell, and the godswoods with the weirwood tree with its crying face and tears of blood. At night, she would earn herself a headache from thinking too much of her family and of home.

What would home be like now? They had lost Father, Jon had left and Sansa was now a hostage and, supposedly, still to be married to the boy king Joffrey. Bran could no longer run along rooftops or play like he used to. Robb would become the Lord of Winterfell now that Father was dead, even though Robb was only five years years older than her, just the same age as Gendry if not a bit older. She had lost Nymeria and Lady was dead; _would it ever truly feel like home again?_  Arya would think to herself. But Winterfell was better than sleeping on the forest ground and it was safer than King's Landing.

 _I wish I never left home,_ Arya would murmur to herself as she curled up into a ball whilst hugging Needle to her.  _I wish I was back in Winterfell with Jon and Father; I wish I had never come to King's Landing._

Of course, she never spoke about these thoughts to anyone. Hot Pie and Lommy Greenhands - named after being green to his elbows - were wary of her and were scared of Gendry but she talked to them nonetheless. It was better to make friends with enemies than to make enemies of friends. Hot Pie was an orphan just like Lommy; they had nothing and no one and Yoren had promised them hot food and a bed to sleep in and the only price was to join the Night's Watch. It was a kinder offer than to be left on the streets with the chance of being killed was higher than ever.

Gendry was a different story; he was a trained smith and, Arya thought, it would have been easy to find a master to take him in and to once again make steel and armour. She didn't want to tell the older boy, though, not wanting to sound stupid in case he would tell her it was something he had already thought of. Still, Gendry was nice to her - nicer than others. Most ignored her and the two of the men in irons pulled horrid faces and said even more horrible things. The bald one had disgusted her more than frightened her with his stump of a tongue while the other reminded her of a hairy ape with his coarse, black hair on his arms and with no nose but a hole on his face.

Arya wondered how that had happened.

But, heeding Yoren's words, Arya ignored them the best she could and tried not to meet the eyes of the youngest of the three, a strange but quite handsome man with odd red and white hair. Hot Pie bet Arya that he was a cut throat from the pits of Flea Bottom and Lommy said that he was a rapist who molested children - boys and girls alike. Gendry had told them both to shut their mouths if they didn't want the odd haired man to hear them or for Yoren to lock them in with the three to find out which the odd man truly was. The looks on their faces had made a smile turn the corners Arya's lips up as she caught Gendry's eyes. She knew him to only be jesting because Yoren was too far away to hear them and the odd man was locked up.

Arya pulled up her trousers up around her waist; she had made sure to go to the bathroom far from the group. She stood behind a large oak tree, her eyes darting around for any signs of movement and jumping at any sound. Yoren had told her if she were to piss, let it be far from them to not chance in being found out. Half of the would turn her over and the other half would do the same, only they'd rape her first.

That had caused her some nightmares.

Arya walked her way back to camp, hopping over large stones and large, thick branches that had fallen from trees above. A small creek gurgled beside her, slurping as it ran over worn rocks, smoothing them. Her feet were still sore from all the walking and her back was stiff from sleeping on rough ground. The journey from Winterfell to King's Landing had been terribly long and boring in itself even when she had been in a carriage instead of walking and spent nights in an inn. Still, she couldn't help think that she was enjoying this journey far more the other; the one from Winterfell had been soured with Sandor Clegane - also known as the Hound, Joffrey's faithful servant dog - murdering Mycah, the butcher's boy and with Father having to kill Sansa's direwolf, Lady, when Jory and Arya had chased Nymeria off with sticks and stones so that she would not be the one to be killed for attacking the then Prince Joffrey. Arya supposed Sansa never forgave Arya for that; in her sister's eyes, Arya was the one who had sentenced Lady to death and not Queen Cersei.

Arya thought that with every step she was closer to home and away from Queen Cersei and that monster Joffrey who had ordered Ser Illyn Payne to bring him her father's head.

And no doubt they wanted hers now.

Arya could hear the sounds of voices as they talked and some laughter from others. Arya stepped into view and bent down to wash her hands in the small source of water; she scrubbed at her skin and ignored the water soaking the ends of her sleeves. She pushed up the material on either arm and cupped the water in one hand to help wash the dirt on her arms, hoping to feel less disgusting. Arya placed both freshly cleaned hands in the water again and brought her face nearer before splashing the coldness all over. She rubbed her face and watched as tiny droplets fell from her eyelashes, the tip of her nose and her chin. The ends of her hair clumped together from the water and Arya had half a mind to dunk her entire head within the small stream.

"Yoren said that none of us should be wanderin' off," a gruff voice said near her. Arya raised her head, with water still dripping down onto her chest and underneath her chin; it caused her to shiver only a bit as it disappeared beneath the collar of her shirt. She wished that she could wash her clothes too but that was a very bad idea. Yoren would probably slap her if she asked him. Gendry squatted near the edge of the creek with a metal bucket within both his hands to collect water; Arya wondered how long he had been there for and whether he had seen her come back. He was only a stone's throw away from her so she must have seen him upon returning.

"I wasn't wandering," Arya frowned, trying to defend herself. Gendry was stubborn, she had come to realise. He had been nicknamed the Bull for his helmet but he truly did have the nature of the animal. He spent most of his time frowning and when he wasn't, he would laugh at Arya when he would catch her out on anything or at her reaction from his teasing and rudeness. "I went to gather some sticks for a fire."

Gendry cocked an eyebrow at her underneath his black, shaggy hair. Arya had never seen hair so black but his eyes had left her to think; because she  _swore_ that those eyes had been seen on someone else. Arya thought that, had he been a highborn lord or a knight and wore silks instead of leather and did not have dirt and grime smudged on his face, Sansa would fancy herself half in love with him. But Arya thought him to be as knightly as he was romantic like in the stupid songs that Sansa loved so very much.

"And where are the sticks then?" Gendry question, a smirk playing on his lips. Arya had been squatting, just like Gendry was doing, near the edge of the creek, ignoring the stones and pebbles that dug into the soles of her leather shoes, and let her hands knot together as if in prayer upon her knees. Her eyes darted beside her and realised just how stupid she was; all she had to say was that she had left to piss. But then he would have asked her why she had to go hide in the woods like a scared little child and Arya would stutter and think of a lie.  _Better to look stupid than to be found out_ , Arya supposed.

"I . . . forgot them,"Arya finally relented, dropping her head stared at the froth on the rippling water. She knew Gendry probably thought her to be a fool or stupid.

"What type of person goes out to find sticks and returns to only forget them?" Gendry taunted, as he scooped up the metal container full of water from the creek. Arya watched as water trailed down his arms with the sleeve rolled up, with his muscles moving underneath. Gendry was taller than Jon and looked to be stronger too; but Arya was small and quick, being able to doge out of the way from a swing of a sword. More than once had Arya been able to sneak past the sentries Yoren kept posted at night to relieve herself. They wouldn't even suspect a thing in the morning.

Arya stayed squatted at her spot as Gendry returned again. He ran a wet hand through his black hair, causing it to stick up in the most comical ways. Arya stifled a laugh by covering her mouth with her clean hand but Gendry still shot her a curious glance. After all the teasing he had done and his rude comments, Arya wasn't going to tell him. In truth, Arya couldn't remember the last time she laughed. She forgot what it felt like. Already the strands of Gendry's hair was falling down flat upon his head again. But it felt good to feel childish even if it were for a moment; these past few weeks had not allowed Arya to feel that way so.

The sound of hooves broke through and Arya and Gendry turned to the sight of six men dressed in fine armour upon horses. And upon their backs were golden cloaks.

Arya's heart stopped and her legs gave out from underneath her, causing her to fall sideways into the creek. She wasn't soaked completely, her hands had caught her and the water wet her sleeves up to the crook of her elbow. Her knees her soaked but yet, she could not help but stay frozen within the little stream. The Gold Cloaks glittered and shimmered from underneath the small rays of the sun. They were every bit as horrible as she remembered. At their sides were strapped perfectly forged longswords. Their horses snickered and whinnied underneath them as they were pulled to a halt.

All eyes were on them yet Arya felt like they were on her, prickling her skin and causing her stomach to churn.  _They've found me. They're going to take me back to King's Landing!_

Arya scrambled to her feet with weakened knees, her hand flying to Needle with a death grip.  _I won't let them take me, not without a fight_ , Arya promised as her eyes darted around for a quick place to hide. The Gold Cloaks had not yet looked or paid attention to her. Quickly, she darted forward, pushing past a confused Gendry, and ducked behind the trunk of a thick evergreen tree. Arya's breathing quickened and her bowls turned to water as a stampede of horses threatened to burst against her chest.

"What are you doing?" Gendry asked, his face laced with disbelief and confusion. Arya couldn't answer because her voice was caught in her throat and she thought that if she were to speak, all that would be heard was a scream that wanted to be let out. But instead, Arya let herself sink the ground covered in dead leaves and placed two hands over her mouth to prevent herself from making a noise.

She could hear one of them speak, asking for who was in charge. Arya's mind began to race and she couldn't stop herself from shaking.  _Fear cuts deeper than swords._ Arya knew that should anything happen, she would be able to run into the woods before they could catch her. But how long would that last?

Yoren's voice drifted up to her ears, sounded rough and full of his usual gruffness. "Who's asking?" Yoren asked.

Arya took her hands away from her mouth and placed her hands on the ground, ignoring the pricks from tiny twigs. Arya gathered up the courage to turn her body sideways and peer from around the thick bark of the tree. Her entire body shook with fear as one hand rose up to take a grip of the bark, ignoring the sticky sap underneath her palm.  _Fear cuts deeper than swords._  Needle was firmly beside her, causing fake reassurance that she wouldn't be harmed. Arya was a water dancer and she could easily kill them if she wanted to. But they were so tall and the armour they wore protected their frail bodies and made it difficult to pierce their skin.

The Gold Cloak who spoke before lifted up a rolled up parchment in his hand, a look of disgust on his face as he glared down at Yoren upon his horse. The horse moved from foot to foot, the guard's golden cloak swaying behind him. The hem was covered in dirt and mud from being dragged on the ground. The other free hand was kept on the hilt of the longsword strapped to his side. "I have a warrant for one of these gutter rats, a certain boy - "

Even from this far a distance, Arya could see Yoren's eyes narrow at the Gold Cloak upon his horse. Arya watched as one hand went to his beard, scratching it, whilst the other slyly moved towards the hilt of the dagger that he kept opposite his own sword. "And who is it that wants the boy?"

"What are you doing?" Gendry questioned with exasperation filling his voice. He crept nearer towards Arya, bending over her to gaze out from the tree just as she was doing. It felt very odd to her but she decided she would not comment upon it.

"They want me," Arya confessed, saying it more to herself than Gendry. But, alas, he had heard it also and she could feel his blue ice like eyes staring at her with disbelief.  _If only he knew_ , Arya thought to herself as her fingernails dug into the tough bark of the tree with more sap oozing out and onto her fingers. Arya was scared, she admitted, because she knew exactly who is was that wanted her. It would not matter to them if she were dead or alive. Arya wondered if they had already killed Sansa.  _Fear cuts deeper than swords._

"Why would they want you?" It sounded more of an insult than a question but Arya didn't pay heed as she stared long and hard at the parchment held within the Gold Cloak's hand.

"The queen wants him, old man, not that it's  _your_ concern," replied Gold Cloak replied with an annoyed tone. Yoren raised an eyebrow and dropped the hand from his beard to place it on his belly. Yoren glanced around to the boys and men that were set to join the Night's Watch. Most of them stood with their feet with a few clutching stones within their palms. The Gold Cloaks were easily out numbered but they held proper swords and had armour to protect them.

"Thing is," Yoren began, drawing his eyes back to man upon the horse, a scowl deepening on his ugly face. "The boy's in the Night's Watch now. What he done back in the city don't mean piss-all."

Arya swallowed roughly as the scene began to unfold right in front of her. The other Gold Cloaks look around them, realised that everyone was watching them with scowls and looks of hatred on their faces; one man spat as he ground his teeth whilst throwing a thick rock up in the air before catching it again. But Yoren still just stared at the one he was speaking to, his hand kept on his belly and the other tightening on the hilt of his dagger.

"The queen's not interested in your views, old man, and neither am I," the Gold Cloak replied, his tone turning weary of the conversation he was having with the black brother. "I'll have the boy."

"You'll do no such thing," Yoren spat back, clenching his jaw as his eyes turned to slits. "There's laws on such things."

The Gold Cloak smirked, glancing back at his companions who shared the smirk. Turning back, the Gold Cloak shifted in his seat and the sound of steel scraping shrieked in Arya's ears. But Yoren was much quicker than the guard. In a flash, Yoren had the blade up against the inside of the thigh against the guard and cocked his head to the side. The smirks died from his and his companions' faces at the sight of the dagger.

"It's a funny thing," Yoren said as he pressed the blade edge up against the unprotected leg. "People worry so much about their throats that they forget 'bout what's down low." The horse snorted and moved uneasily beneath the guard as his companions stared wide eyes at Yoren, not believing what they were seeing with their own eyes. Slowly, Yoren reached over the legs of the guard and grabbed the sword he kept in his scabbard and pulled it out with the steel scraping.

"We'll just keep that." Yoren threw it behind him and it landed with a thump on the ground, scattering a few leaves. "Good steel is always needed on the Wall." The others were closing in on the group and the horses were moving from foot to foot and bucking their heads at how unpleasant the scene was.

Arya had not realised she was holding her breath until her lungs hurt and her chest felt like it was about to burst. She sucked in a sharp breath of cold air and the pain lessened but the panic did not. Things were going to turn very ugly, Arya realised. Gendry's breath was hot on her scalp with his chest just grazing her back as she clenched her jaw and kept her eyes straight ahead and not give into the temptation to burst out and kill all the Gold Cloaks.

"Seems you have a choice," Yoren continued. "You can die here at this crossroad a long way from home or you can go back to your city and tell your masters you didn't find what you were lookin' for." The threat hung in the air causing the mood to almost choke Arya as she tried to keep her breathing steady and lessen the grip she had on the bark. Her hands were sticky and felt almost glued to the trunk of the evergreen tree. Yoren and the guard stared at each other for a moment before the guard swallowed loudly, his eyes glancing down at the knife held at his inner thigh.

"We're looking for a boy named Gendry," he announced with a waver to his voice. Instantly the panic left her but flowed into Gendry. Her hearted stuttered in her chest from the relief that she had not been caught out but then another worry about why they had been looking for Gendry. He had told her that he was an armour's apprentice, unless he had lied to her in order to not seem like those monsters she feared. But she shook her head; Gendry was stubborn, rude and loved to tease her but she knew he wasn't a liar. He would have ignored her and bullied her like Hot Pie and Lommy did at first but he hadn't. He had been nice to her and defended her when the boys had cornered her. "He carries a bull's head helmet. Anyone turning him over, will earn the King's reward. We'll be back with more men."

Arya stood out from underneath the tree and stared wide eyed at Gendry as he stood out next to her. Slowly, as the Gold Cloak's cantered off, everyone turned towards them - even Yoren. Arya glanced at Gendry and knew that he was feeling what she felt when the Gold Cloaks arrived: the smallest hint of fright and disbelief could be seen on his face but, when his eyes met her, the fright swirled loud and clear within.


	2. And Now His Watch has Ended

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amidst the war ravaging the land of Westeros, a lone Stark must find her way home, to her true family.
> 
> And yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I do not own any of the characters, places or story lines (unless stated otherwise) mentioned in the work; they all belong to their owner: G.R.R Martin  
> \- Mostly original dialogue.  
> \- A work of fiction previously known as "The Bull and the Wolf."  
> \- comments are very much appreciated!  
> \- for any more information, check out my profile!

_**Chapter Two.** _

"What did the Gold Cloaks want with you?" Arya asked in a hushed voice. They sat a far bit away from the others to keep out of the prying and curious eyes. More so, Gendry had and Arya had been curious and in want of answers so she had quietly followed him to where he sat out of sight and, hopefully, out of mind. He sat away from her with a dark shadow cast upon his face and the scowl upon his face had deepened.

It was disturbingly quiet, leaving the young Stark girl to feel nervous; if the Gold Cloaks did return would they discover her too? Would she have to return to that dreaded place to be a prisoner or to be beheaded as her father was? Arya knew she would not be as important as the beautiful Sansa, for Arya had not been promised to the boy king and Joffrey would like nothing more to see her head on a pike alongside her father's. The thought caused her bowls to turn to water and a lump to form in her throat.  _Fear cuts deeper than swords._

Gendry sat in silence, his eyes staring at nothing but the water washed rocks with hatred and anger. He sat with each elbow upon a knee and his hands knotted together, the knuckles turning a pale yellow. Arya thought that he knew as much as why the Gold Cloaks wanted to do with him, a low born smith, as she did. Yoren had given him the oddest of looks before an ugly scowl settled upon his even uglier face. Yoren had chased and threatened the Gold Cloaks away under the belief that the boy - or gutter rats, as they had put it - they had been looking for was not Gendry, but Arya. She had believed it too for who else was the Queen looking for if not the other daughter of the supposed traitor Eddard Stark?

The thought of the death of her father left a bad taste in Arya's mouth and the thought of him, the honourable Eddard Stark, being a  _traitor_  was more than Arya could handle. She had heard all types of stories when roaming the alleys and cobbled streets of Flea Bottom; that it was Ned Stark that murdered the then King Robert in his bed; that King Robert choked on a boar during a feast; that the boar had been poisoned; that Ned Stark and Ser Barristen Selmy plotted together and tricked the fat and drunken king into signing a royal decree that Ned shall be the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. Most supported the latter for they believed that Ser Barristen was still true and loyal to the previous king, The Mad King Aerys they nicknamed him, and that her father always hated Robert Baratheon for taking the throne.

 _Lies!_ Arya wanted to scream.  _My father was not a traitor!_

Arya looked over Gendry and could not help to wonder what made  _him_ so special. He was a thick headed, bull boy who only cared about his bull helmet. Arya picked at the dirt underneath her nails as she narrowed her eyes at him, keeping her legs criss - crossed in front of her, ignoring the sharp end pebbles that stuck into the skin of her leg from the rolled up trousers. Gendry sat very still and very silent; if it were not for the rise and fall of his shoulders, Arya would have guessed he was dead.

"Stop looking at me like that," Gendry snapped at her, turning his eyes away from the glare direction towards the rocks to face it in her way. Arya didn't let her face give away to any emotion except for the rise of her eyebrows. Arya could see the fear within his eyes if he did not allow his face to show it. He had washed his face clear of dirt and the grime, Arya noted, and it made him look much younger.

"I wasn't looking at you in any sort of way," Arya retorted, rolling her eyes at him. "I just asked you a question."

Gendry continued to frustrate her; he was rude and difficult to be around when all he did was scowl and make rude remarks. Arya wanted to comfort him by saying since he was a part of the Night's Watch now there was nothing they could do and Yoren would not hand him over to Queen but she felt as though he didn't deserve her comfort when all he did was snap at her.

"Well, asking me questions brings people bad luck," Gendry murmured as he stood to his feet, not bothering to brush off the dirt on his clothes or pick the leaves that stuck to the material of his sleeves. Curiosity burst within Arya and she stood with him, wide eyed. Gendry must have thought that that would still her poking and prodding but no, it only fuelled her desire to know and to get answers from him. Gendry began to march back to camp with a sullen look on his face and Arya quickly followed him, eager to know.

"Who had asked you questions before?" Arya stressed, as she caught up with him wanting to grab his arm and make him face her. Instead, Gendry whirled on her with his jaw clenched, his eyes glaring down at her. She didn't move from where she stood nor did Arya let herself to be intimidated by him; he was taller and stronger but she was quicker and quieter.  _I should be the one to be feared,_  Arya hissed to herself as she glared up at Gendry staring into his blue ice eyes.

"Gods, how can someone so small be such a big pain in my arse?" Gendry cursed, turning away from her. They were still far enough away from the camp for no one to pay them heed or hear their conversation. When Gendry turned away, Arya grabbed him by the arm and made him face her. She was determined to find out what it was he was hiding.

" _Who asked questions?_ " Arya urged, being sure that she kept her voice low enough to not draw attention from anyone but there was a hint of ice within her tone the same way her father used to speak when he was not her father, but the Lord of Winterfell. Gendry pulled loose his arm, letting out a sigh as he stared at her with narrowed eyes. But Arya did not care, she just wanted to  _know._ He ran a hand through his thick, black hair before crossing his thick arms over his chest. Arya pleaded with her eyes in hopes for to him to answer.

"The Hand of the King," Gendry relented. He was careful to keep his voice low even looking over his shoulder so no one was close to them. Arya's heart fluttered in her chest and her eyes widened at his words. "Or Hands of the King."

Arya couldn't breathe. She tried to push together a coherent sentence within her mind. Had her father died for meeting Gendry? Was that why the Queen wanted him? What had they spoken about? How long ago was it that they had met? Arya sucked in a shaky breath as she stared at Gendry as though he had two heads but the elder boy did not notice. "The Hands?"

Gendry nodded, a frown on his face a crease deepening between his eyebrows as a muscle began to jump in his jaw. "First Jon Arryn before he died and then Lord Eddard Stark . . . a few weeks before he died."

It was as if the air had been sucked from Arya's lungs; tears began to sting in her eyes at the thought of her father.  _Why_ had he met Gendry? It was difficult to breathe as her knees began to weaken. In the last few weeks before Father's death, Arya had noted how he spent most of his time locked away in the Tower of the Hand and, when he didn't lock himself away, she had seen him more than once leaving the Red Keep but she thought nothing of it. Why should he not be allowed to explore as she had? But, now, it was odd in her mind; why would he leave? All the people he had needed to associate with were already in arms reach of him so what did he want outside the walls of the Red Keep? He had even brought some men with him at times.

"Lord Stark?" Arya repeated in a meek voice, a hand going up to grip her stomach. She wanted to hurl, to cry, to scream but, instead, Arya kept quiet and ignored the pain in her stomach. It hurt to think of her lord father even in the slightest. She felt like a little girl again, wanting to curl up into a ball on the ground and cry until her eyes were red and her head was sore. Gendry took no notice of her but instead gave Arya another nod.

"They came and started me all sorts of question," Gendry revealed as his eyebrows knot together. "They asked me about my work, if I liked it there and they asked about my mother."

Arya stared at Gendry, trying to see what it was that had captured the interest of the two Hands; he had a square jaw with a dusting of facial hair around it.  _He could not be older than Robb_ , Arya thought; he was tall and muscled, he had thick black hair and his face was handsome enough. But what was it what had made him so interesting?

"Who was your mother?" Arya prodded, grabbing the material of his sleeve to capture his attention again. She wanted to know everything, she wanted to know why Jon Arryn and her father spoke with him and what it was that had made the Queen want him so badly. Gendry let out another sigh and freed one of his hands to run it through his hair again. Arya waited impatiently for him to speak, her grip on his sleeve tightening. Gendry glared at the grip she had but turned to look at her.

"Just . . . my mother," he replied coolly, pursing his lips. "She had yellow hair, worked in a tavern and she sang to me sometimes. She died when I was little."

Arya waited for him to continue but he did not. Letting go of his sleeve, Arya's hand flopped to her side like a dead fish as she ran the other through her own stringy and greasy hair. Arya could feel his eyes studying her but Arya did not care; he had told her next to nothing about what he spoke about with her father. Arya felt angry towards Gendry for not even telling her what her own father said.  _He does not know who I am,_ Arya remembered sullenly,  _he thinks I'm a low born orphan boy with no family. Why should he care what I think?_  But it still hurt Arya; she felt as though no one remembered Eddard Stark for existing for the man he was but instead was a traitor whose name needed to be wiped from the world.

"What about you?" Gendry's voice broke her from her thoughts and she snapped her head up to meet his eyes. Her eyebrows knit together in confusion at his question. "Why did you think the Gold Cloaks were after you? Is it because you killed someone or just 'cause you're a girl?"

Arya's eyes widened so much she felt like they would pop from out of her head. How could he have known? There was nothing about her to give it away that she was a girl; she had made her water far away from the others or at night when no one was awake. Fear spiked up in her heart when Yoren's words rang in her ears:  _half o' them would turn you over and the other half would do the same, only they'd rape you first_. Arya sucked in a shaky breath; Gendry wasn't like the others, she knew, he was not a rat but that didn't mean she trusted him. He was now as in much danger as she was. Her eyes glanced to Yoren as he sat far away from both her and Gendry chewing on an apple with the juices running down his face and into his beard. If Yoren knew that Gendry had discovered she was a girl then Gendry, he would probably send Gendry off.

"I am not a girl!" Arya denied in a horrified voice that was was shaky. Gendry's raised his eyebrows so that they disappeared under his shaggy hair but there was a smug smirk upon his lips.

"Yes you are. Do you think I'm as stupid as the rest of them?" Gendry wondered, scoffing at her. Arya felt angry and she raised her hands to push at his chest; Gendry stumbled back only one foot but it was enough for Arya as her anger and fear were mixing together.  _Fear cuts deeper than swords._ She could threaten him with Needle or saying she would turn him over to the Gold Cloaks but that made Arya feel disgusted with herself. What would her father say if he knew what she thought? But Arya was scared he would blab to the others and there was only so much Yoren could do against a pack of thirty men.

"Stupider!" Arya hissed, venom practically dripping from her tongue at the word. She was panicking, Arya realised, and Gendry could see. "The Night's Watch doesn't take girls, everyone knows that!" It was a lame attempt at defence but Arya's mind was running at half a mile a minute. She couldn't help but feel that way; what if the others found out as well? What if they discovered not only was she a girl but Arya Stark, daughter of Eddard Stark who was believed by the people to be a traitor? The palms of her hands began to become slick with sweat as her heart stuttered.

"That's true, but you're still a girl," Gendry argued as he stared down at her. The fire within Arya burned up as she glowered at Gendry. She curled her hands up into fists and gritted her teeth to stop herself from hitting him. Arya would not give him the satisfaction of him rousing her temper and being right.  _But he is right,_ a voice echoed in Arya's mind but she shook her head.

"I'm  _not_ a  _girl_!" Arya insisted through her teeth in an almost childlike way. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips pursed as an almost amused look passed over Gendry's face with the smug smirk on his face growing wider.

"Pull your cock out and take a piss then," responded Gendry as he cocked an eyebrow. Arya's cheeks turned darker at his words; she had heard Theon Grejoy, her father's ward, use words like that all the time but they had never been directed at her. She had even heard her brothers, Jon and Robb, swearing on occasion but as Gendry continued to stare her down, Arya turned redder and redder.

"I don't need to take a piss," Arya stuttered as she forced herself to stare at Gendry as to not look weak. The boy scoffed at her pathetic excuse; Arya felt the anger calm down in her and she began to wring her hands together. She had to trust Gendry, Arya realised, or she would have to fear him. Taking a deep breath, Arya glanced down, flashing her eyes towards Lommy and Hot Pie not too far away.

"Lommy and Hot Pie can't know.  _No one_ can know," Arya relented, turning her head up to plead with Gendry. He stared at her oddly as though he half expected her to continue to deny the fact she was a girl. She was red faced with wide eyes full of fear but hope that Gendry would not tell anyone. Her life was on a blade's edge as the silence began to stretch on. Finally, Gendry let a sigh bleed past his lips and Arya felt like she could breathe again.

"They won't hear it - not from me, anyway," Gendry agreed. Arya felt her heart sore in her chest but she refused to let it show on her face. She knotted her fingers together and decided to take one step further;  _Gendry could be trusted,_ Arya uttered to herself. May she have courage yet. Arya gulped loudly as she hugged her arms around herself.

"My name's not Arry," Arya revealed, pausing to watch as Gendry turned to face her. "It's Arya . . . of House Stark."

It took a few seconds for the words to be ingested. Arya watched as Gendry's face screwed up slightly and he stared at her. Then a look of disbelief and horror took hold with his eyes widening. His mouth parted slightly and Arya heard the sharp intake of breath; Arya could see the slight paleness in his face as he continued to stare at her. Arya swallowed roughly, trying to find her voice and the courage to continue. She wished that she had stopped talking but there was no going back. Gendry had told her he would keep her secret of being a girl but she wondered if she was asking too much of him. She was wanted by the Queen and the Lannisters just as much as him.

"Yoren is taking me back home to Winterfell," Arya continued keeping her voice as level as fiddled with the material of her shirt as she waited Gendry to speak or even to say a word but he did not make a sound. Arya wondered if it was too much for him before the surprise and shock left his face and he gathered his wits.

"Your father . . . the Hand, the traitor - "

"He was never a traitor!" Arya interjected, feeling the anger build up in her. Her father had more honour than any of the Southern lords in the Seven Kingdoms. It was all lies and curses! Her father loved King Robert as a brother and she knew he would do anything for his longest friend, but killing him? No. If her father was a traitor than Arya was as much of a perfect lady as Sansa was. "Joffrey is a  _liar!_ "

Gendry blinked at her, as though he was seeing her in a new light. He was probably trying to think of Arya as a high born girl who wore dresses and sewed and could dance properly but that made Arya cringe. Here she was, dressed as a poor beggar boy with short hair, dirt on her face and smelling of sweat; her Septa would probably collapse should she have seen Arya in this state.

"So you're a high born, you're a lady." There was something odd in his voice, something Arya could not detect. She knew a lot of low born's hated people like her, especially when she was from an old and powerful house. But Arya hoped that Gendry would not see her that way, though she knew not why. The thought of being referred to as a lady made Arya screw up her face and puff out her cheeks slightly.

"No!" she rejected the notion of being referred to as that. No one had ever called her 'my lady' back home in Winterfell because she hated being called that. Many would call her 'Arya Underfoot' kindly - but Sansa and her friends had spat their nick name for her: 'Arya Horseface.' Even now, it hurt her. Arya shook her head as she tried to explain herself to Gendry.  _Why should I explain myself? It is not my fault I was born as a Stark,_ Arya wanted to pout. However, she felt like she needed to explain herself to him. "I mean, yes; my mother was a lady - and my sister but - "

"But you were a lord's daughter," he observed, nodding his head as though he was agreeing with himself. "And you lived in a castle and - " Gendry stopped himself short and he turned to look at her yet again with his eyes wide. He had grown paler. "Look, all that about cocks I should never have said - and I've been pissing in front of you and everything!"

Seeing Gendry in a fit of distress made Arya want to smile as he stuttered over his own words. He struggled over his own words as he tried to put his thoughts into plain words. Arya's almost smiled at his current state when he dropped his head, meeting her eyes.

"I should be calling you m'lady," Gendry finally decided and Arya felt the horror was clear on her face. How was her gender to be kept a secret if Gendry were to call her a lady - it made her cringe and purse her lips. She was not a lady; she did not know how to sing, dance, write poetry or keep her mouth shut and just smile. Those were what Sansa was good at not her; she could swing a sword, climb a tree, shoot an arrow and Arya could dance as well as Rickon, her wild little brother, could. Arya Stark was nothing but the complete polar opposite of a lady. She didn't want to be a lady, she wanted to be a knight and to hold a sword instead of a sewing needle. Arya huffed in anger as she glowered at Gendry.

"Do  _not_ call me my lady!" Arya seethed as she stepped closer to Gendry. In return, Gendry bowed his upper half with half a smile on his face.

"As m'lady commands," Gendry teased and Arya screwed her face up. Instantly her hands were on his chest again and she pushed Gendry back, with more force than she had before. Gendry's smile widened as he looked her with faux shock. "Well, that was unladylike!"

Arya raised her hands up again and pushed him again, much harder than before and if it were not for the stone behind his foot, Arya doubted he would have fallen; but Arya watched as Gendry fell back onto the forest ground with a full blown smile on his face. He had caught himself with his elbows and lay there with bright eyes. Arya let out a huff and turned on her heels, hearing Gendry laughing at her as she stomped away from him. She tried to ignore the warmth in her cheeks as she, too, fought a smile.

Arya walked back to sound of chatter and laughter and she forced herself to keep a straight face and to not give away anything. A chill was in the air and caused goose bumps to ripple across her flesh; Arya was used to much worse as she was from the North but the chill was new to her after being so long in the South. Arya fought the urge to wrap her arms around herself as a shiver passed through her. Already the sun was creeping low behind the trees, causing orange rays to cast themselves upon her.

"Boy, lovely boy," a voice called out to her.

Arya stopped still in her tracks and turned towards the source of the voice. In front of her, not three feet away, was the wagon that ironed the three most dangerous criminals. Arya's grey eyes found the odd haired man's and he looked at her an also odd sort of interest. He was handsome and slender and he spoke in a soft voice and had a sweet smile but out of all three, he disturbed Arya the most.

"What do you want?" Arya blurted, a sense of hostility in her voice. The odd man's eyebrows rose on his forehead, causing a few crinkles and creases to appear. A smile danced on his lips as he raised up an empty cup. Arya stared at it before her eyes darted to his two companions; their buggy eyes stared at her with a fire of hatred burning deep. She did not let herself be afraid of them for they could not get to her.  _Fear cuts deeper than swords._

"A man has a thirst," the slender man continued with his voice sounding cool and light. He reminded her of Syrio Forell, her beloved dance master. He had thought her how to fight like a true water dancer but she could not help to think of how good it did her when Ser Meryn Trant came to take her away and all Arya could do ws run. "A man does not drink for a day and a night. A boy could make a friend."

"I have friends!" Arya defended herself, feeling the corners of her lips turn down. She stepped even closer to the metal wagon to show she was not afraid of the man.

A sudden sound caused Arya to whip her eyes away from the slender man to one of the other prisoners, the big hairy one. His hands clutched at the metal and he pushed his face into the light so Arya could see how truly ugly he was. "Give us beer, before I skin you," he threatened, his voice low and ringing truth.  _Fear cuts deeper than swords._ A lump formed in Arya's throat but she only stared at the ugly man with apathy.

"A man does not choose his companions," continued the slender man with a calm and steady voice. He had a nice voice, Arya reckoned, he sounded kind. "These two have no courtesy. A man must ask forgiveness."

Arya took her eyes away from the other two and stared at the odd man; she could not see the hatred like she saw in the other two prisoners; there was a knowing look in his eyes. Arya swallowed roughly and curled her bottom lip in between her teeth, chewing on the flesh. Yoren had warned her not to stray towards these men but now she was stepping closer - mostly because she was curious of the odd man. She had remembered Hot Pie and Lommy's discussion about whether or not he was a cut throat or a rapist; they had asked her what she thought and only reply was that she didn't care as long as he kept away from her.

"You are called Arry?" questioned the slender man with a quirk of his eyebrow. His eyes were a light grey, reminding her of Jon's in a way. Arya had almost forgot her alias; if she hadn't remembered or heard it, Arya might have let her identity slip. Arya did not answer but gave a short curt nod to him. The man cocked his head to the side as if studying her; Arya felt her skin prickle slightly and her jaw clenched shut.

"This man has the honour of being Jaqen H'ghar," he replied with a curt bow of his head directed toward her. It reminded her of how the guards of Winterfell would bow when she ran past them with Nymeria padding alongside her. It all seemed like a thousand years ago to her. He had a very peculiar name, nothing that sounded like it came for Westeros. "Home to the free city of Lorath - "

He was cut off to the same man speaking again, Rorge his name was, as he gripped the metal confinements tighter so that his knuckles were bone white. "Beer! You little shit," Rorge warned as he bared his disgusting yellow teeth at her. "Get us beer!"

An anger swelled within Arya; she hated to be pushed around especially by pathetic scum like him. A muscle jumped in her jaw as her eyes narrowed at the hairy man. Arya decided that she hated him and she would rather sooner see him dead on the end of her sword than let him live. She glanced down and picked up a stick that had been riddled away by time and woodlice. She ignored the rough feel of it as she glared at him.

"You should have asked nicely," Arya sneered as she got into the position Syrio had taught her. Arya stood sideways upon the balls of her feet and tried to imagine the branch as an extension to her arm. Quickly, Arya swung the sword down on the knuckles of Rorge and he let out a growl of anger. Arya swung again, letting the stick to smack him on the wrist. Rorge threw his entire weight forward in hopes to break his chains and grab Arya but the chains stayed and he was pulled back.

"A boy has more courage than sense," Jaqen stated in a soft voice, a smile upon his lips. Arya turned her eyes away from Rorge and stared at Jaqen, pursing her lips into a straight line. Arya threw down the stick beside her, resisting the urge to pull a face at the trio, and stomped off now in a very foul mood.

* * *

 

Arya laid in the corner of the empty room and despite how tired she felt, sleep could not find her. Arya stared at the mouldy walls and watched as spiders crawled their way up to the ceiling. They had found the holdfast and, since the sky had been dark for an hour, Yoren announced that here was where they would sleep. Arya found the darkest and less dirt corner she could and curled up into a ball with her back facing the others. It was deadly silent and there was no sound except for some snoring and the howls of wolves.

Arya's heart sank to her stomach whenever she heard a wolf howl, thinking that it would be Nymeria to take her away from everything. Arya could live in the forest and would never get caught. Nymeria would protect her and Arya would protect the wolf in turn. But it was a stupid dream, a child's dream. Arya was no longer a child, she was ten and two years of age and was nearly a woman grown now. It should soon be her name day by Arya's calculations. But days and nights melted together and muddled her mind. For all Arya knew her name day had come and gone already.

Arya held Needle in her hands and stared at it; it had been Mikken's work and he had crafted it beautifully just as Jon asked him to. She wondered what Jon would think of her now; his little sister sleeping on the dirty floor with thieves, pickpockets and murderers while wearing boy clothes and her hair cut horribly short. Arya tentatively reached a hand up to her hair and fingered it. Yes, it had grown only slightly and that calmed Arya down. What would her mother Catelyn Stark think if she saw her daughter now?

 _Father said I looked like Lyanna but Lyanna was beautiful,_ Arya grumbled as her hand dropped from her head. Arya had never met her aunt but many had always spoken about just how beautiful and sweet she had been. Father had told Arya that she was just like her aunt Lyanna, strong and fierce.  _If Lyanna was anything like me, she would not have let herself get stolen by Rhaegar Targaryen._

Arya could not help to wonder about her lady mother; surely word must have flown to Catelyn about the death of her husband. Arya thought of Bran who lay in his bed unable to move his legs and little Rickon, wilder than Arya and far more fierce. She wondered how Jon would hear or if they would even tell him; Robb, Robb who had still been practising with wooden swords when Arya left Winterfell, was now the Lord. And Sansa, Arya thought bitterly, Sansa probably still had her head full of silk and could only think of Joffrey and just how much she loved him. Arya wanted to spit at the thought; Sansa had hardly knew Joffrey and who could every love such a monstrous beast? Arya could not help to think what a fool her sister had been and Arya swore she would not make the mistake as she had and fall in love. Love was a foolish thing and Arya had no need of it.

She wanted to kill them; she wanted to kill Joffrey, Cersei, Illyn Payne, Meryn Trant and The Hound. She wanted to drive Needle through their necks, she wanted to torture Joffrey and make him feel the pain she was feeling. She would never forget nor forgive them for what they did.

"I'll kill them," Arya whispered to herself, not caring if someone was to over hear her. "Joffrey, Cersei, Illyn Payne, Meryn Trant, the Hound. I'll kill them."

Arya whispered the names silently and with each name, she imagined their deaths. With each name, Arya found herself falling deeper and deeper into sleep.

The sound of a hunting horn jolted Arya awake and she instantly bolted up with a tight grip on Needle. The others started to shuffle and others sat confused and rubbing the sleep from their eyes. Any trace of sleep from Arya was stripped away as she jumped to her feet at the second sound of the hunting horn. Her heart leapt into her throat and fear grabbed hold of her again.  _Fear cuts deeper than swords._

"Get up! Get up, you lazy sons o' whores!" Yoren's voice rang through the room as he kicked some of the sleeping ones up. They all scrambled to their feet but were too confused and her mind was buzzing. Arya made her way to join the others when a hand locked around her elbow. The smell told her it was Yoren. He dragged her away with some casting glances in her direction but all Arya could do was follow helplessly after Yoren. Yoren threw Arya up against someone, causing them both to stumble; looking up, she saw it was Gendry who had dark circle underneath his eyes.

"Listen to me you two," Yoren growled in a low voice. He placed one hand on Gendry's shoulder and the other hand on Arya's. "Whatever happens, who ever gets killed, I want to you two to  _run._ If I catch you tryin' to be brave and helpin', I will wack you over the head with my sword. No matter what, you will  _run."_

Arya stared at the black brother in disbelief at his words. Arya was no craven and she would not run. She glanced up and met Gendry's eye to see if had felt the same way. Arya was a wolf of Winterfell, she was a Water Dancer and she would not run away like some common craven. Yoren could tell what she was thinking and he moved his hand from her shoulder to grip at her hair. Arya made herself look into his eyes and was shocked - he was pleading her.

"I told your father that I was going to protect you an' get you safely back home to Winterfell," Yoren must have forgotten that Gendry was here but Gendry was not surprised to hear Yoren's words. "Now, you run and you run hard."

Yoren gave them a hard shove and turned away from them to draw his sword. He left the holdfast and walked into the light of the moon. Arya did not know what to do; Yoren was right if she was caught she would be sent back to King's Landing to the Queen and Joffrey and would be their prisoner. But if she ran, Arya could be free from the game of lords and ladies and live in the forest. Shaking her head, Arya grabbed Gendry's wrist and pulled him towards the door. Their feet hit the wet grass with the moonlight almost burning her eyes.

They dashed quickly behind a thick bush, watching as Yoren and a few men flanking him walked up to the men atop of horses. There were City Watch men and Lannister guards alike, causing a pit for form within Arya's stomach. She gripped the bush, ignoring the thorns that dug into the skin of her hand and drew blood. Gendry crouched just behind her with his breath hot on the crook of her neck. She shook slightly from the terror within her.  _Fear cuts deeper than swords._

There was rustling next to her and Arya's eyes glanced over to the sight of Hot Pie crouching behind a small bush with his entire body shaking.  _So he is a craven,_ Arya murmured and turned back to watch as Yoren sauntered up to the group of men on horses. She heard Yoren spit on the ground in front of what appeared to be an officer. Arya allowed herself a smile at the action of the black brother.

"We're looking for the bastard crow," announced the officer. His voice made Arya's skin crawl with disgust; blood began to seep from between her fingers as the thorns dug into her palm with the other firmly gripping the hilt of her sword. Yoren stopped just in front of the officer, one hand on the dagger and the other hand on his own sword.

"There're more than a few bastards here, who's asking?" Yoren snorted as a few of the men flanking him smirked in agreement. Arya curled her bottom lip in her mouth and chewed on the delicate flesh as she tried to not blink in fear that she would miss something.

"Ser Amory Lorch," he drawled on as his horse shifted uneasily beneath the officer. "Sworn bannerman to Lord Tywin Lannister. We have come from the capital at the word of our assistance. I order you to drop your weapons in the name of the King."

Arya wanted nothing more than to leap out and kill all the guards. Arya knew that this was all going to end terribly and she may never see the sight of Winterfell ever again. Needle shook in her hand as her breathing became shallow and ragged. A guard had an already loaded crossbow in his hands and he aimed it towards Yoren with a smug look on his face. Arya wanted to scream at Yoren to run but nothing came, her mouth stayed shut and Arya could not tear away her eyes.

"And which king would that be?" Yoren spat again on the ground and shifted his weight, ready to unsheathe his sword in an instant. A look of displeasure covered Amory Lorch's face as he stared down at Yoren, fingering the hilt of his own sword.

"In the name of king Joffrey, the  _true_ king: drop you weapons," Amory ordered with his voice turning cool and steely calm. Yoren only glared at the officer.

"I don't think I will," Yoren defied as he stepped closer to Amory, the steel of his sword glinting in the silver, waxing moon. Amory Lorch's eyebrows twitch but his face betrayed no emotion besides smugness.

"So be it," Lorch replied and flicked a hand towards the guard with a cross bow. It all happened so fast Arya thought it was not real. The sound of the arrow flying through the air pierced her ears like a scream as it dug into the shoulder flesh of Yoren. A grunt escaped his mouth and he fell awkwardly on one knee. Arya's eyes widened and let out a gasp; she made her way to leap out of the bush but Gendry's hands placed themselves on her arms, restricting her to not move.  _No!_ Arya wanted to scream.  _Please! Don't hurt him!_

His sword shrieked against the scabbard and he swung it in an arc, slitting the throat of the guard with the crossbow; the blood spurted from his neck and he fell face first onto the grass. Arya could not keep up as she watched Yoren swing his sword and kill three more men. The blood oozed out of them slowly and the all fell. A hesitant soldier leapt forward and drove his spear in through the back of Yoren's leg. The black brother instantly fell to his knees before he struggled back up and dug his sword into the soldier. Then another spear was driven in through Yoren and it look as if all air had left him. Arya struggled against Gendry, watching with horror as Yoren fell again, but not to stand again. Blood covered Arya's hand but pain did not register. She wanted to fight and kick Gendry away but she stayed limp and silent as Amory Lorch had his horse to slowly walk up to Yoren.

The Lannister officer unsheathed his sword and slowly drove it into the exposed flesh at the back of Yoren's neck. Yoren choked on his blood, it flew from his mouth, dribbled down his neck and poured downwards. Yoren made a gurgling sound as Amory Lorch pressed the sword down further and further into Yoren. Arya couldn't breathe, she wanted to turn away but she couldn't. Instead she watched as Yoren's head dropped to his chest and the blood from his mouth choked him.

Amory Lorch removed his sword and all was silent. Arya's eyes burned from not blinking for so long. She painfully removed her hand from the thorn bush, not caring that is was all covered in her blood. Suddenly, Gendry's hands left her and he darted forward. Arya wanted to follow him but all she could do was stare. Stare at Yoren and the blood that pooled around him. Anger flared up in her and she grabbed Needle, thrusting it into the air, and shouted  _"Winterfell_!"

Arya burst forward and heard the yells of the other boys ran after her and towards the guards. Her blade drove was driven through the leg of a man who let loose a blood curdling scream from the pain. She stabbed him again in the other leg and he collapsed to the ground but still breathing. Arya wanted to kill another when shouts rang in her ear.

"Boy! Sweet boy! Help us! A man can fight! Free us!"

It was Jaqen H'ghar she realised. Arya stopped in her steps and stared at the lick of flames that burnt their path towards the three men confined within the wagon. They were shouting for her to help but she didn't know what to do. Arya glanced around, desperate to find something that would be useful. A glint of metal caught her attention and Arya raced forward to grab the axe that was embedded within a tree stump. Arya ran towards Jaqen, the fire burning her skin and the sweat glistening her brow but she did not care. Rorge took the axe in his hands and did not spare her another glance nor did she him.

Arya ran towards the direction of the sound of steel against steel; she knew the dangers of what would happen should she and Gendry get caught. She knew that she would have to run and bring him also. Arya ran and ducked her way through the fight, trying to catch a glimpse of Gendry. His black hair, blacker than the night sky, caught her eye and she went to reach him. He drove a sword through the belly of a guard but then another came up behind, wrapping his thick, armoured arm around Gendry's throat. Without thinking, Arya drove Needle through the exposed leg of the guard. He fell to his knees and Arya did not have time to stab him again before she grabbed Gendry's wrist, her blood coating him. She placed Needle back into its place in her belt.

"We have to go!" Arya urged, tugging him away. "Yoren said we have to run!"

Arya felt as every bit as horrible as Gendry looked as they began to run, far away from the fighting, far from the screams and moans of the dying. Gendry quickly over took Arya and he moved his hand so that their hands were clasped together, slick with sweat and Arya's blood. They made their way back to the bushes when a groan filled the air. Lommy was in front of them, on the ground with his leg bleeding. Arya gave Gendry a tug and stared at him with pleading eyes.

"We can't leave him here!" Arya begged, ignoring the pulses of pain in her hand. Gendry glowered at her. "They'll kill him!"

"And they will kill us, Arya!" It was the first time Gendry had called her by her true name but it made her frown. He did not really believe Arya would actually leave her friend there, would he? Arya pulled her hand free and, despite the danger of the situation, she just stared at him. But he did not have time; he grabbed her by the arm and tugged her away from Lommy who lay tired and broken. Arya scratched and clawed at his hand but Gendry was far too strong for Arya.

She glanced back at Lommy who lay in a slowly growing pool of blood and beside him was a bull's helmet. Arya felt herself grow weak and she nearly stumbled over when they neared the bushes. Hot Pie still sat there squatting and Arya instantly grabbed his sleeve, pulling him to his feet.

"Come on, Hot Pie!" Arya yelled at him as they ran into the darkness of the trees; Gendry gripping onto Arya and Arya pulling Hot Pie.

As Arya fled from the scene of the fight, she felt she was further from home than she ever was before.


	3. Not Today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amidst the war ravaging the land of Westeros, a lone Stark must find her way home, to her true family.
> 
> And yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I do not own any of the characters, places or story lines (unless stated otherwise) mentioned in the work; they all belong to their owner: G.R.R Martin  
> \- Mostly original dialogue.  
> \- A work of fiction previously known as "The Bull and the Wolf."  
> \- comments are very much appreciated!  
> \- for any more information, check out my profile!

_**Chapter Three.** _ _  
_

_What do we say to the God of Death?_

 

_Not today._

 

"Not today," Arya had echoed, her chest burning. The branches slapped at her exposed skin, their teeth stripping across her flesh. Arya could not feel the pain in her body; her thoughts could not be strung together and her breathing was shallow. Gendry had wound his hand so tightly around her arm that she was afraid there would be bruises upon her flesh in the morning. Would they even make it to the rise of the sun? Would she ever see the brightness of morning ever again?  _Fear cuts deeper than swords._ Hot Pie let himself be dragged by Arya, who was much smaller and thinner than him; in turn, Arya let herself be dragged by Gendry, who was far taller and stronger. She was afraid that if he were to let go her legs might stop and she would be found by the soldiers far behind them.

Arya tried to remind herself to take deep breaths, forcing herself to keep a hold of Hot Pie's shirt with such ferocity that it might rip and Hot Pie would be left behind. Arya could not see anything for the darkness had wound itself in between the thick trunks of the tree. Her clothes were being ripped and shredded, scratching the skin beneath. Arya had remembered when she had been playing within the godswood with Bran and she had fallen from a branch that gave out underneath her weight. The left side of her body had been left black and blue for an entire week with dark scratches everywhere possible and her mother had shouted at her that she were to no go into the godswood any more if she were to act like a boy.

It was a strange thing to recall; Arya had wound her hand around Gendry's wrist and seem as if to be floating for she could not know how her legs kept up with Gendry nor how she had the strength to pull along the fat Hot Pie; nothing felt real and she wished so terribly that this was all a terrible dream, that she would wake up home in Winterfell with Nymeria and Jon and have Father hold her again and to have the chance to push Sansa in the mud, to creep into the crypts of Winterfell with Bran and wild Rickon, to watch Robb swinging his wooden sword with Theon Greyjoy and to laugh when Robb would win only to have Theon hit him with the play sword. Arya wanted it all so much, her heart was going to burst with longing; whatever tears that fell down her cheeks were washed away by the wind.

She felt like a child, to be wishing such things when her life was in danger; but it could not be helped for childish things such as hope were always within those who were truly human. And Arya was a child; she was only ten and two and she still struggled with her letters and her numbers - though she did much better in her numbers than Sansa did - and she had not yet bled.  _I am still a child but how long will it be before I am killed as a child?_

 _What do we say to the God of Death?_ Syrio Forel's voice echoed within her mind, a comforting thing. Arya ignored the tears that wet her lips, tasting salty on her tongue. "Not today."

 

 

The branches snapped against her skin, their teeth nipping at her cheeks her clothes. Wolves were howling within her and Arya could not see. The world was drowned in darkness; she felt as though the darkness was encircling its bony fingers around her heart, pushing its slimy hand down her throat and gripping her.  _Fear cuts deeper than swords._ Arya's palms were stretched out in front of her to push away the branches, ignoring the pain as they whipped against her delicate flesh.

 _Where am I? Where am I?_ Arya could barely hear her own thoughts as tears ran down her cheeks, mingling with the blood and burning the scratches. Everything was closing in on her, howls and the songs of ravens rattling her ear drums.  _Where am I? Where am I? I don't know where I am; Father, help me!_

It did not matter if Arya looked up, the sky was hidden by the fingers of trees; they were reaching for her. Why was she running? Where was Father? Where were Jon and Robb and Bran and Rickon? Where were her mother and Sansa? Why was she all alone? Why was she running?  _Where am I?_

Arya's clothes were ripped and shredded as the sharp pricks dug into her skin. She was scared; it all felt like a horrible dream. She wanted to wake up but she did not know how. Arya felt the world disappear from her – she was falling. Despite the darkness, Arya clenched shut her eyes and made not a sound. Her hands were splayed in front of her as the ground came up to meet her. Arya's skull cracked against the ground, causing a blinding white to explode in her vision.  _Where am I?_

The ground was cold and something was seeping into her clothes. Arya turned her head, laying her cheek on the coldness. Slowly, the Stark girl opened her eyes, flares burning within her eyes. Whiteness; there was whiteness everywhere. Her hands grew numb and her entire body shivered.  _Where am I?_ Arya stood to her feet, taking harsh breaths as they ripped at her throat. Her hands were clean and there was no site of blood. They were a delicate pale, the paleness of being in the North. Tentatively, her fingers brushed against her cheeks but there was no blood or tears.  _Where am I?_

Arya looked around her, heart leaping in her throat.  _Winterfell._ But, it was not Winterfell – not really. Smoke began to sting her eyes and nose, the grey mist curling into the air and further. Snow had fallen upon the castle and so had silence; it was thick and caused her to feel unsettled. Arya had seen Winterfell during a snow fall but this was different; wind bit at her cheeks and made her skin feel raw. The snow fell upon her eyelashes; it stuck to the ground and coated everything in sight. Arya's breath had fogged, curling within the air. She watched as it swirled up, up, up disappearing in the clouded sky. No one was to be seen and she was alone.

A movement caught her eyes, causing her to whirl her head towards it; there sat Nymeria, with her tongue lolled out of the side of her toothed mouth. The direwolf should have been larger, much larger, but she was a pup such as the day when Arya had been gifted with her. The direwolf simply sat staring at Arya, cocking its head to one side like a curious child. Arya could not find her voice, it had burned away and all she could do was stare back at the wolf.

Arya made a step forward but instantly, Nymeria stood to her four feet, not threatening her master, but simply, staring. The wolf placed forward one paw, mirroring Arya's action. Arya blinked and raised her hand in order to reach out and run her fingers through the softness of Nymeria's coat. The wolf mimicked her.  _Where am I? This is not home and this is not Nymeria. Where am I?_

Arya dropped her hand and placed her foot back – Nymeria did also. Arya stood there – the wind blowing the loose strands of her hair around her and her body shivering from the terribleness of the cold.  _What should I do?_  Nymeria let out a howl, once again capturing Arya's attention. The wolf turned its body, flicking her tail, and stared at Arya with darkness within. Arya hesitantly stepped forward, placing one foot in front of the other, trailing after Nymeria. Arya stared at what remained of her home; there were chunks from the walls removed, the stables were burnt to the ground. It looked dreadful. But there was not a soul in sight. The snow had been untouched as though no one had lived there for months.

Arya knew these walls, these steps. She had stepped here before. Father had never let Arya go alone into the crypts that held the past lords of Winterfell; he had told her it was too dangerous for a lady. What was the danger of only stone? But Arya found herself without courage to step in front of the mouth of the crypt; she stood far to the side, her breathing increasing.  _Why am I afraid? Fear cuts deeper than swords._

Nymeria padded away from her, towards the mouth of the crypts, and sat herself down, her body rigid and stiff. Slowly, Arya found herself moving in an arch, the light of fire at the entrance casting a glow upon the white blanket of snow. Arya stood in front of the crypts and emptied her stomach upon the ground beside her, her throat burning and her eyes glistening.

Her father's body hung without a head, the rope around his neck somehow being able to stay on; her mother's noose was dark, blood dripping from her neck and onto the snow like glistening rubies; Robb's body was soaked in blood as well as Jon's, the paleness of their faces was like curdled milk. Two more bodies swung beside Arya's two brothers but they were black and crisp, as though having been burnt. Six bodies were hung from noses and two were empty. Arya could not breathe, her lungs screaming but all she could do was stare at the sight of her dead family. She was all alone.

_What do we say to the God of Death?_

* * *

 

Arya bolted up, drenched in her sweat and her chest rising and falling. The rays of the dawn fanned across the sky, the morning dew sparkling like diamonds. Arya looked to her hands, they were scratched and one was covered in dried blood. Pain ached and licked at her bones, making it difficult to sleep. Her dirty hands went to her cheeks and found them to be sore. Her hair was greasy and felt heavy upon her head; her clothes had rips and were as dirty as ever. Arya's legs were too painful to move and the muscles felt stiff and sore. Arya felt raw, as though she had been stripped of her clothes and left to die in the cold.

"Nightmare?" a voice broke through. Arya's head whipped around to glance over her shoulder and her eyes met Gendry's. He sat with his back leaning against the trunk of an oak tree. Dark circles hung beneath his eyes as though they were to stay there permanently and he had some bruising across his neck.  _It's from the soldier that tried to choke him._ Her hand was gripped around something - Needle. The clean blade was coated with the darkness of blood. Stick with the pointy end, Jon Snow had said to her.

Hot Pie lay not too far from Arya, his back towards them. Arya wondered if he knew about Lommy who was more than likely dead by now. Would he cry or even care? Arya remembered how Lommy laid there with a pool growing around his body; maybe Gendry had been right that Lommy would have slowed them down but he might have been wrong. He had decided to save himself and left Lommy there to die. Arya felt anger curl up within her, licking at her bones as she continued to stare at Hot Pie. Gendry's previous question had meant nothing to her.

"We left Lommy," Arya stated, her voice void from any dram of emotion. Arya turned her grey eyes away from Hot Pie and faced Gendry who held an equally emotionless face as hers.

Gendry sat with his hands in the fold of his lap with one leg out stretched and the other was bent underneath. She had remembered how Gendry had volunteered to stay watch so that Hot Pie and Arya may be able to sleep briefly. Hot Pie had fallen to the ground and instantly fell unconscious but Arya was hesitant; she had turned her back away from Gendry and curled up into a ball with Needle strapped to her, with hands knotted together again in prayer.  _Joffrey, Cersei, Illyn Payne, Meryn Trant, the Hound,_ was her chant as she lulled herself off to sleep. Any memory of sleeping peacefully and of free mind was no longer known to Arya. Old Nan's stories were only a distant memory.

"He would have slowed us down," Gendry replied, his voice curt and sharp. Arya wondered when the last time Gendry had slept properly with no fear installed within his heart. The purple underneath his eyes told Arya that it had not been for a long time. His facial hair grew darker, like a black shadow. Arya had remembered how Robb would loathe keeping his face clear as he complained that it made him appear as a child. Arya pulled her legs up towards her, hugging them to her chest as she clasped her hands together.

"You don't know that," Arya muttered placing her chin on her knees. Arya felt her eyes become heavier, as though the last few hours of sleep did not exist at all. Arya's dream burned within her mind, but it was seeping away from her at the same time. Nymeria was there, her dear direwolf that she had chased off to save. But would Nymeria ever forgive her? Would Arya be ever able to tell her wolf that all she did was so that Nymeria would be able to live?  _No,_ Arya thought,  _I reckon I shall not be seeing Nymeria again. Nor shall I see Jon or Sansa. Would I ever make it to Winterfell? Will Mother and Robb ever find me?_

"I do," Gendry sighed, running a hand through his already messy hair. There were sticks and twigs tangle in the strands but Gendry did not take any notice of it. He was a boy and boys never really cared what they looked like but neither did Arya. She cared not that she looked like a boy and not the least bit like Arya Stark as she should. "He had the smell of death about him."

Arya wanted to scoff at his words. Arya had seen the dead bodies of all her father's men and some of them had been her friends and she had killed that fat stable boy. Arya thought just how foolish he was; Arya doubted he had never even seen a man die before Yoren. "As if you would know what death smells like," Arya commented with a cut to her voice. She turned away from Gendry and stared straight into the darkness of the trees. The sun was rising slowly, winking over the tops of the trees. They should start to move soon if they did not wish to be caught.

"I'm sorry,  _m'lady_ ," Gendry sneered, his voice cold and sharp. "I had not known you were such an expert on death."

Arya was silent as she continued not to meet his eyes, afraid that she would apologise or say something worse. No, instead she kept her mind clear and her voice empty from any emotion. All Father's men - men who had been nice to her and told her jokes and reassured her that for every Northern man that would kill would be ten dead Southern men - had been killed where they stood without a chance to draw their weapons. It was a slaughter done by cravens.

"Yoren wouldn't allow me to watch as Joffrey ordered my father's head," Arya began coolly, swallowing roughly. Her throat was dry and she was in want of a drink very badly. Birds began to chirp in the trees as the leaves rustled. If Arya closed her eyes, she let herself believe that she was within the godswood back in Winterfell and that Nymeria sat beside her and it was nearly time for dinner. "They used his own sword when they took his head; I tried to help him but I couldn't get through the crowd. At the last minute, Yoren grabbed me and turned me away. I still heard it: the sword going through bone and his head falling on the ground. Joffrey did not even wield the sword himself. Father used to say that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword."

Arya knew Gendry was staring at her; his stare prickled her skin as her held her legs even tighter to her chest in hopes to squash the pain within her heart. Arya would not let herself feel so childish by crying after her father or her mother. She was alone and she no one to depend on. Yoren had died to protect both her and Gendry; she would not let anyone protect her again for she could not take the pain of losing another friend.

"My sister, Sansa, stood up there with a smile on her face. Even though Yoren tried to pull me away, I could hear her screaming when Joffrey ordered for Ser Illyn Payne for my father's head," Arya finished as she exhaled deeply, rolling her head to place one cheek on her knee. Would they send her father's bones back North to be buried back in Winterfell? Arya doubted it for she knew just how much of horrible person Joffrey was. "Yoren was supposed to bring me back but he died too. I don't think I shall be seeing Winterfell again."

"You don't know that," Gendry said, in a voice softer than she had ever heard him speak. It reminded her of Jaqen H'ghar in a sense. Slowly she turned to face him; he had a frown on his face again as he struggled with to keep his eyes open. Arya studied him for a moment, dropping one of her hands to feel the dew on her palms; it felt pleasant against the cuts on her hand. Arya was hungry and couldn't remember the last time she ate something nice that she hadn't killed with her sword or wasn't a rodent.

"What about you?" Arya inquired, starting to rip the grass from the ground. She hated sitting still for longer than a moment and the thought that there were people out there probably hunting her down made Arya want to just run, to run and never look back.  _But where would I run? I would get caught and found out eventually._ "Are you still going to join the Night's Watch?"

There was a pause of silence as Arya continued to rip the grass from its roots, the wet blades sticking to her skin and her fingers starting to become stiff. "I don't know," Gendry replied in a tired voice. "I probably wouldn't make it there on the King's Road with being a wanted man for no reason."

Arya's tongue was heavy in her mouth, feeling as though there was hot cotton stuff in her throat. She needed to have a drink badly; her lips were chapped and her mind was fuzzy from the lack of any fluid. The memory of wine lingered softly in Arya's thoughts, making her stomach tie painfully in knots and her throat to tighten uncomfortably. They were in the Riverlands so there must be a fishing village or a stream nearby. But they had no gold or coin to buy any food and the people would not take kindly to beggar children. This was what she had come to begging and sipping from streams; Arya had been told by her Septa, her mother and her father to never steal but what if stealing was what saved her from a death?

Arya got to her feet, ignoring the jolts of pain that shot through her body as she wiggled her tones and flexed her fingers. Her joints were stiff and sore but she was alive and that was all that mattered. There was a terrible taste in her mouth and her tongue was dry; all in all, Arya felt truly disgusting with sweat gleaming in her face, her hair greasy and stringy upon her head, her mouth dry and smelling of morning breath and her clothes were dirty and stunk.

"I'm going to see if there's any water around here to drink," Arya announced to her companions; well, to Gendry since he was the only other one awake and Hot Pie was dead to the world. Gendry's eyebrows raised and he made a move as though to get to his feet.

"I'll come with," he offered. The purple of his eyes seemed to grow as the sun rose higher and higher in the ground. It was nearly mid - morning by Arya's guess but her mind was so fuddled and muddy that it could already by mid - day by now. Arya shook her head in decline at Gendry's words. Gendry was as quiet as a mammoth and she needed to be stealthy in case if there were any soldiers out there.

"No, it's best if I go alone. That way if I get caught, you two might get a chance to run away. Plus, you're terrible at sneaking," Arya half smiled at her jape. Gendry didn't bother to protest as her let his body slack, staring ahead as the light burst through the trees. Arya didn't make another sound as she shuffled off, ignoring the discomfort in the balls of her feet and in her heels. It was eerily quiet, the birds had stopped singing and there were no humming from the insects. The leaves ruffled like dry paper and trees creaked and cracked against the wind.

Her clothes did little against the wind and her feet were slowly getting wetter from the dewy grass; Arya tread lightly on the balls of her feet, careful to move like a cat as Syrio Forel would have her be. Needle hung at her waist, glinting in the sunlight. She didn't need protection as Arya had Needle and Needle would always protect her. Arya debated on telling Gendry about his helmet that had lain beside the injured Lommy. Arya knew that Gendry loved that helmet for all he kept it beside him at all times but never place it upon his head. It was stupid, Arya believed, to only make a helmet with no armour. But it suited him, it suited his stupid bull headed personality and the fact he was stubborn as one as well.

 _He's a stupid bull boy,_ Arya agreed resigned,  _but he was right about Lommy. If we had taken Lommy, we would all be taken and Lommy would be dead either way._

But that didn't mean Arya had to like Gendry; he was annoying, frustrating and he never smiled. Jon always smiled and laughed and was kind but he was just as stubborn as Gendry. No matter what Arya said to her half - brother, Jon would always shake his head with a sad smile and tell her that he was a bastard, not her true brother. Gendry was a bastard, Arya knew, and he was bitter for it. He probably thought Arya would look down on him for it, unknowing that she had a bastard brother.

"Lord Eddard Stark fathered a bastard?" Gendry would laugh. Arya always felt helpless as she heard people whispering about how the honourable Eddard Stark fathered a bastard and she could never do anything because they were right. She had heard them say that not even honour can keep a man's cock in his pants. But Arya loved Jon and she loved her father so she tried her best to ignore the whispers.

A rush of water caught Arya's attention and she stopped moving; it was a river of a type and it was very near. Arya's mouth pooled with saliva at the thought of dunking her entire head within the coolness. But Arya did not rush, no, she took her time and followed the source as her feet moved silently as though they were silk. Arya pushed past a barrier of leaves and the sight of the blue water caused her heart to leap in her throat. No longer being able to contain herself, Arya surged forward, dropping to her knees upon the bank and placing her lips to the surface of the water. Gulping and guzzling, Arya did not take the time to pay attention to the taste nor did she care that it tasted awful. She satisfied her thirst and the burn in her throat; her mouth became clear and it felt like ecstasy.

Arya pulled back and took deep breaths. The sky was a clear blue but with grey clouds gathering near and with them, rain. Arya reached up and wiped her mouth against her sleeve, ignoring the need to jump into the river with her clothes on her back. Instead, Arya pushed her sleeves up and scrubbed at her filthy and bloody skin and the dirt beneath her nails; she cupped the water with her clean hands and brought it to her face and washed away all the sweat on her face. Arya bent forward and dunked the top of her head within the water; her nails scratches at her scalp as she scrubbed at the tresses, instantly feeling all the dirt being removed from the strands.

Arya flicked her head up, the hair pushed back onto her scalp as she knelt, feeling cleaner and fresher, more herself. And more like a girl. Arya wondered if anyone would recognise her now that she no longer looked like a dirty urchin boy; she gazed at her rippling reflection on the water, frowning at herself. There were dark bags underneath her eyes and her lips were in an awful state; her cheeks had hollowed out a way and her chin was sharp and pronounced. Even Arya could not recognise herself.

A movement in the water garnered her attention, causing her to tear her eyes away at the reflection. Something was floating down stream, down towards Arya; it was large and odd shaped. Arya stood slowly to her knees, squinting at the floating mass as it drifted bit by bit in her direction. It was the darkness of blood that caused Arya's breathing to catch in her throat.

The body was face down with the skin wrinkled and the colour of curdled milk; the hair was stringy and floated like a crown around the head. It was a man she could tell for he wore breeches and a blue tunic but he wore no shoes upon his feet. Arya could only stare wide eyes at the body as it moved away from her moderately; soon, that body was replaced by two more and then four more and then ten more. Arya even saw a child's body.

 _I need to get back to Gendry and Hot Pie; we need to leave._ Where there are bodies, there are murderers close behind.

Arya turned on her heel and ran, her heart pounding in her chest.  _Fear cuts deeper than swords. Fear cuts deeper than swords._ Would Arya be too late? Would Gendry and Hot Pie have already been caught? Arya pushed her way through bushes and leaves, retracing her steps to where she had last left the two boys. Arya could only think about if she would be too late and they were gone. The wind whipped through her hair, causing dry strands to strand up as the damp hair fell in front of her eyes again, the sharp ends stuck in her eyelashes. Arya panted as adrenaline rushed through her body, the pains from the previous night had vanished and her legs pushed her further.

Bursting through the trees, she quickly gathered that Hot Pie was awake but Gendry was nowhere to be found. Hot Pie sat sullenly on the ground but at the sight of Arya, his eyebrows furrowed together. Where was Gendry? Why had he wandered off? Had he been caught? A million thoughts swirled through Arya's head as her breathing came fast and shallow. They needed to move -  _right now._

"Where's Gendry?" Arya demanded, her shoulders heaving up and down. Hot Pie gathered himself to his feet with a frown on his fat face. "Hot Pie, where is Gendry?" Every moment there was a moment wasted. Hot Pie's eyebrows furrowed together at her questioning.

"Has something happened?" Hot Pie inquired in a tone far too calm for Arya's liking. He hadn't answered her question and Arya felt her heart twisting tighter and tighter by the minute. Arya all but leapt forward and grabbed Hot Pie by his shoulders, shaking the taller and fatter boy.

"Hot Pie, where is Gendry?!" If they were caught, who knows what would happen? Hot Pie would be killed and Gendry would as well and she would be taken back to King's Landing to Joffrey and Cersei to be kept as a hostage no doubt. Arya would  _not_ go back there; she could not think it in her to live in such a wretched place and to be surrounded by the bastards who betrayed her father.

A sound of feet from behind caused Arya to push Hot Pie from her grip, take Needle in her hand and whirl around to face who had dared to come near. At the end of her blade was a wide eyed Gendry with his hands shown towards her. His eyebrows were raised and he stared at her with confused eyes. Pursing her lips, Arya dropped Needle and placed the sword back in its place upon her belt.

"Whoa there, m'lady," Gendry whistled in a low tone. Arya could hear Hot Pie behind her stutter out  _M'lady?!_ "I was just off to take a piss."

Arya shook her head and grabbed Gendry by the wrist in one hand and Hot Pie by the sleeve in the other. "We need to leave. Right now. There are bodies in the river and I'm positive there are soldiers not far behind."

It had hardly been a second later when the sounds of hooves cracked through the ground. All three looked at each other in fear as the horses moved closer. Without a word, they started to run; Arya tried to move her legs faster and swing her arms higher in order to get further and further away. But the thump of hooves was closing in. Would she be able to climb a tree? There was no way Hot Pie could and Arya doubted Gendry had a nimble bone in his body to let him scramble up a tree like Arya could. But there was no time and there were no trees that had branches low enough for Arya to grab onto and pull herself up. Gendry was ahead of Arya as the world became a flash of green and brown.  _Quick as a snake._  Fear pumped her body and gave her the energy to keep on running.  _Fear cuts deeper than swords._ Arya couldn't believe how Gendry had managed to run for he had not slept at all last night nor did he have a drink of water.

Arya could hear the whoops from the men and the horses snorting as she jumped over a fallen tree.  _Swift as a deer._ Gendry ran to her left with his arms swinging in arcs beside him, jumping over roots and careful not to glance back. Soon, the sound of horses and their men died away and all that was left was the thump of Gendry and Arya’s feet on the ground as they continued to run and never stopping. But soon the temptation became too much for Arya and she glanced over her shoulder.

She saw nothing.

She saw no one.

More importantly, she did not see Hot Pie.

With her mind distracted, Arya did not see the branch or the man the struck out and caught her in the stomach. Pain exploded in her body as Arya fell back, the world alight in stars dancing against the now grey sky.  _Stars should not be out during the day._ Arya rolled onto her stomach, her face pressing down onto the ground. She could feel the mud wiping onto her skin. The air was not in Arya's body and she could not seem to breathe it in. Her stomach felt as though the insides had burst and crawling up towards her throat. A gasp filled Arya's lungs with air; it felt as if she had died but learned to breathe again. She could hear the laughter of men and the sound of scuffling. Grunts filled the air.

A hand grabbed Arya by the hair, forcing her body to be lifted up and her throat to be stretched. Excruciating pain burned like a fire in her body and her head left like as if a white hot poker had been shoved through her eye and into her skull. Her breathing was loud and uneven, and her stomach burned.

"This lad's a pretty one!" A voice shouted right next to her ear. There were hoots and howls from others and the hand on Arya's hair freed her, causing her face to smack into the ground. "Oh, that's a pretty little blade. I might pick my teeth with it."  _No! You can't!_ Arya wanted to scream and shout, to kick and fight but she could only feel as the man took Needle from her, took the one thing that reminded her of home and placed a kick to her face for good measure. Pain exploded and for a moment everything went black and a ringing screamed in her ears. Her lip had split and blood dribbled down her chin.

An inaudible wheeze left Arya as she turned on her side, clutching at her stomach with one arm as she placed the suffering side of her face to the coolness of the ground. The world was too bright for Arya's eyes as she inhaled and exhaled through her mouth. Without warning, someone grabbed her roughly by the arms and pulled Arya to her unsteady and weak feet. It took every bone and muscle within her body to not keel over right there and then. Arya felt the rough metal being clasped around her wrist as she forced her head to stay up.

Gendry had three men holding him; his mouth was covered in blood and there was a split of skin on his cheek and forehead. Already his eye was swelling and turning purple. Arya wished she could as strong as him and not some weakling who let them kick her and punch her. But Arya did not have the strength within her body to struggle, to fight.

Arya felt a pair of hands beginning to wander around her body. Fright pulsed within her body as she tried not to cry and not to scream out. Instead, she closed her eyes as a hand slipped around her throat, forcing it back. The smell of the man was putrid and Arya forced herself not to gag.

"You're a pretty little  _girl_  aren't you," cooed the man. Arya wanted to cry. The other men were gathering around Gendry was still fighting but his body was lacking the power. Arya winced when the man who held Needle at his side knocked his knuckles across Gendry's bruised face. The man's fingers left disgusting trails on her body making Arya wanting to burn away the flesh underneath. "I won't tell the others - I want you all for myself. I'm going to  _fuck_  you, girl, and I'm going to fuck you  _hard_."

At that moment, Arya had wished she was no longer there. But she was. Arya kept her mouth glued shut in order to prevent herself saying anything. If he had been alone or if she had Needle, Arya would have killed him slowly. She would have ripped out his tongue and cut off all his fingers one by one. Arya imagined herself slowly driving Needle into his leg and watch him scream a blood curdling scream. She would stab his eyes out with a blunt knife. Arya would do all these things to this man. For she would not die. Not here. Not today.

_What do we say to the God of Death?_

_Not today._


	4. God of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amidst the war ravaging the land of Westeros, a lone Stark must find her way home, to her true family.
> 
> And yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I do not own any of the characters, places or story lines (unless stated otherwise) mentioned in the work; they all belong to their owner: G.R.R Martin  
> \- Mostly original dialogue.  
> \- A work of fiction previously known as "The Bull and the Wolf."  
> \- comments are very much appreciated!  
> \- for any more information, check out my profile!

_**Chapter Four.** _

Arya soon realised why they called Ser Gregor Clegane the Mountain; he was a giant in her eyes with standing at over seven near eight foot. He was much taller than his younger brother, Sandor Clegane, and his massive shoulders and arms were the size of small tree trunks. Strapped to his side was a six foot sword, much taller than Arya and far heavier. Arya had heard the history of the elder Clegane brother; it is whispered that he raped and murdered Elia Martell (who was wed to Prince Rhaegar Targaryen) with the blood and brains still on his hands from killing her child.

He sat upon a horse that somehow had the strength to bear the colossal weight of the giant upon the horse's back. Arya glared at him from the corner of her eye through her hair, her heart bursting with hate at the man.  _I wish I could kill him. I wish I could drive Needle through his skull._ But Arya no longer had Needle; it was taken from her. She had lost her one thing of home, she had lost Jon's smile and his kindness, and she had lost protection. But it was no longer within Arya to cry. All that was left was  _hate._

The rain had come with the dark grey clouds; the warm fat drops pelted down on her like old memories. The metal around Arya's wrist was chaffing at her skin and it was sore to move her hands; after they had been caught - with Gendry being the worse for wear as he sported a bloody mouth, a black eye and a lump upon his forehead and one side of his face was purple whereas Hot Pie simply had a bloody lip - the soldiers had marched them to a small village, although it did not look like a village any more. Once, Arya believed, it might have been a quiet fishing village but now it was a graveyard. Houses were burnt to the ground and smoke was laced in the air.

The smell of blood and rotting flesh was prominent as Arya struggled to not gag whilst taking in breaths. Her face burned and it had swollen up from when the man who took her sword had kicked her across the face. It hurt to breathe as a bruise had blossomed on her stomach in the shape of a purple flower. She had wiped the blood from her lips and ignored the throbbing. Gendry walked in front of Arya with his head hung onto his chest and his shoulders slack. She was worried Arya admitted for Gendry had taken a beating that no man would have survived without falling unconscious.

The mud seeped into Arya's shoes and the rain had plastered her hair to her cheeks and forehead. Arya moved sluggishly and it was difficult to stop her feet sinking into the mud though Arya wished it swallowed her up. Arya, Gendry and Hot Pie were shoved into a storehouse that had a caved in roof. The rain stopped momentarily as Arya stepped inside and she could not help to stop.

Around her were the weary faces of men, women and children alike. They were painfully thin and Arya could hear the sobbing of mothers and fathers. The children stared at the new arrivals with looks of fear upon their small faces. Arya's mouth parted and she inhaled a sharp breath.  _Prisoners,_ she realised, _but why would they want prisoners? If Gregor Clegane was anything like the horrible stories, they should be dead. We should be dead._ But no, they were alive and they were captured. A sudden force from behind caused Arya to fall forward face first into the mud. The dirt filled her mouth and the impact made the agony of her body triple.

"Keep moving, bastard!" shouted a soldier as a chorus of laughter rang out from behind. Gathering her tattered pride, Arya got to her feet and continued to walk on, Hot Pie giving her a comforting nudge. The rain started to pelt down on her again, washing the mud from her cheeks and her hair. The doors to the storehouse were shut and the silence ensued. There were hardly any people with maybe only a handful. They were huddled together in groups; mothers and fathers, friends, and there was the odd person who sat alone with their skin pale white.

Gendry fell to the ground, far from the others. Arya watched wide eyed as he lay down in the mud. Quickly as she could, Arya knelt down beside him, ignoring the mud dirtying her already soaked clothes. Using what strength she had, Arya turned him over only to see his eyes were shut; so he must have had fallen unconscious from the beating or from the sheer exhaustion of having to go early two nights without any proper sleep. Hot Pie sat the other side of Gendry with wide eyes as his mouth opened and closed thrice.

"Is he - ?" Hot Pie was too afraid to speak above a whisper as he stared at Arya, not wanting to finish the question in dread of the answer. Arya's fingers traced over Gendry's skin and stopped near his neck. There, she could feel the slow but strong pulse that throbbed underneath. Arya shook her head to Hot Pie and he instantly relaxed, back slacking as he leaned up against the rotten wood of the storehouse.

The rain pelted down on Gendry's face, washing away the blood and mud from him. Arya glared up at the sky, wondering if the Gods were to listen to her cries. Maybe Syrio had been right; maybe the only god was truly death. With a heavy sigh, Arya turned away from her anger at the gods and lifted Gendry's head from the ground, waving aside the feel of the mud between her fingers, and placed him in her lap, laying her head own against the rotten wood of the storehouse walls. What was to happen to them now? Were they to be killed one by one? Would she have to watch the women being raped before it was her turn? Arya gritted her teeth at the thought; she would rather have her own throat slit before that happened.

Arya placed her head on the crown of Gendry's head and placed the other on his forehead. It did not burn her hand, she was grateful, as it would mean he would not get a fever and die. But a fever would be a merciful thing to die of in here. Arya sat in silence, wondering and waiting, and remembering old memories, with her hand in Gendry's hair.

It was then the screaming started.

* * *

 

They weren't allowed to speak so the only sound Arya heard were the screams of those being tortured. From gaps in the walls of the storehouse allowed Arya to peer outside and stand witness as she stared at every victim being tortured. Gendry had told her - even begged - in hushed whispers to look away from the sight but Arya never answered him. She wanted to watch, to remember. She wanted to be able to look on the faces of the men who tortured men and women and she wanted to let them burn within her mind.

 _Joffrey, Cersei, Illyn Payne, Meryn Trant, the House, the Mountain, Amory Lorch, Polliver, the Tickler._ New names were added and Arya spoke them silently every night. She, Gendry and Hot Pie slept close to each other to gather even a sliver of warmth. At times, Arya could not sleep from the cold despite Gendry burning beside her. His swollen face had disappeared slowly and the bruises on his face were turning a pale yellow. The bruise on Arya's stomach had paled as well, turning into a small sunflower beneath her rips. Her face was not so lucky; the skin was red and sore to the touch, throbbing at every face movement.

Arya sported another gash on her lip from when she had learnt the hard way of the silence rule; the man had punched her across the jaw but no sound left Arya and she had not bothered to cradle her face afterwards. Gendry had ripped off a small piece of the hem from his shirt to stop the bleeding and handed it to her silently as the guard turned away. She didn't bother to thank him. Arya didn't have it within her to even cry any more. What was the point? Crying would only get her in trouble. They had not been allowed to eat anything but it rained so often at night that Arya never had a thirst.

Every morning Gregor Clegane came for his pick at who would be chosen for interrogated and he stared upon the people. Arya had learnt to keep her head down and to stay still and unmoving. At times she could feel his eyes linger on her but never once was her name said. The screams were raw in her ears. They all died the same, screaming, and it didn't matter if they had done as they were asked: give information on the Brotherhood without Banners. The interrogators implored nonchalantly about where the Brotherhood were, who helped them, where was Beric Dondarrion. It did not matter if they gave information, stayed quiet or begged for mercy for they all ended up the same way as the last.

At night when Arya had curled up to Gendry, shivering and praying for warmth, she could hear the cries of girls and the hoots of men. They would take girls at night and would rape them, each man having his turn. Arya had pulled her legs closer and knotted her ankles together in hope that they would not discover that she too was a girl. Arya remembered the man who had promised her that he would come and rape her too; her heart burst in flames as she tried to imagine choking him to death or placing her thumbs inside his eye sockets or opening up his innards with his own blade.

Arya was used to the smell of blood and the mud she slept in and the dampness of her clothes; the metal bindings around her wrist made the skin raw and tender making it difficult to move. It was by the fifth day without food and having soaked her pants again that the people had begun to whisper. Arya sat with her legs drawn up to her chest next to Gendry as the townsfolk spoke in hushed whispers of ghosts.

They spoke of the infamous Brotherhood without Banners and of the Red Priest of R'hllor, Thoros of Myr, and how he had paid them for the livestock and food they had taken. Arya listened tentatively as they all spoke one by one as to not garner the attention of the guards; but they didn't care by now. The men were having the fun and the townsfolk realised that either way, they were going to end up dead. Arya's neck was stiff but the swelling on the side of her face had gone down. It was sore to even move; Arya had not stood on her feet since the day they had arrived and her back ached and throbbed in anguish from how she sat hunched or slept curled up on her side.

Hot Pie had been equally as silent as she had and he spent most of his time staring down at his hands; Arya had wondered what he was thinking about and even debated on asking him but the memory of her bloody mouth from the punch was all too clear and all too soon. Arya's shoulders were against Gendry's but even in sitting, Gendry was a head taller than her. Gendry spent his time glaring with blatant anger and at times Arya was not sure he was even awake until she would peer from the corner of her eye and see his blue eyes burning with loathing. Arya remembered how on the third night she had fallen asleep with her head on his shoulder but he didn't oppose nor did he move out from under her. Arya often thought on the first night how she had lulled herself with names on her lips and her fingers in his hair.

On the seventh night, Arya could not sleep with the rain pelting down hard upon her eyelashes. Hands were knotted together in prayer and her body ached from the shivers that racked her body. Arya stared at her hands, ignoring the feel of mud underneath her skin as she lay next to a sleeping Gendry. Arya was careful to speak in the fear that her chattering teeth would bite off the tip of her tongue. There was no sound other than the pitter - patter of the droplets smacking against the ground and wooden walls.

"Joffrey, Cersei, Illyn Payne, Meryn Trant, the Hound, the Mountain, Amory Lorch, Polliver, the Tickler," Arya stuttered out through numb lips. It was difficult to breathe the sharp and biting air as she reminded herself to inhale and exhale, watching as her breath fogged up in the air in intricate swirls. Arya could not feel her feet and the bitter coldness was crawling, making its way through her body. "J - Joffrey, Cersei, I - Illyn Payne, the H - Hound, the Mountain, Amory Lorch, P - Polliver, the Tickler, Meryn Trant. Joffrey, C - Cersei, Illyn P - Payne, the Hound, the Mountain, A - Amory Lorch, P - Polliver, the Tickler, M - Meryn Trant."

Arya felt Gendry stir beside her but it mattered not; her mind was deadened and her eyes frozen. Arya felt him push his body up into a sitting position, but decided not to say anything. She continued on with her list, with her prayer.  _Would Father be proud? Would Jon still love me when he sees me whispering the names of those I wish to kill? Would Robb help me take their heads?_ With each name came the image of their death and it changed every time; from beheading, to stabbing them slowly, to poisoning them, to lodging an arrow in their hearts. The possibilities were endless for Arya.

"Joffrey, Cersei, Illyn Payne - "

"Arya."

" - the Hound, the Mountain, Amory Lorch, Polliver - "

" _Arya_."

" - the Tickler, Meryn Trant. Joffrey, Cersei, Illyn Payne, the Hound - "

" _Arya!_ "

Gendry's voice was a hoarse whisper but it made her stop saying the names; Arya looked up and saw gazing down at her with the scowl still on his face.  _He should smile more often_ , Arya murmured in a quiet voice,  _I prefer him when he smiles_. Arya used to like it when people smiled and laughed and told her funny stories. But no one had smiled at her and she had not heard laughter for so long, it seemed like only a pretend thing in her childish mind.  _I am a Water Dancer, not some ill minded child_. Gendry's hand had found its way clutched upon her shoulder, his grip like a vice. So, he had not been asleep like she had thought before; Gendry had heard every name she let falls past her damaged lips.

"Why are you doing this to yourself?" Gendry all but demanded, his voice sounding gruff and raw. It had been so long since Arya had heard him speak she had thought he turned mute or that someone had snuck in during the night and took the tongue from the boy's mouth. Arya could not move her face if she did not want to be in pain so instead she let herself stare blankly at Gendry, her lips pursed into a thin line. That had managed to soothe the chattering teeth within her head.

"I want them to die," Arya admitted in a dead pan voice that was unlike her in various ways; she could not see hope within these walls and every night she closed her eyes with the last thoughts being:  _will I die tomorrow?_ Death did not scare Arya anymore but what came before unsettled her and caused a pit to form in the bottom of her stomach. "I want them all to pay - to  _suffer_."

Arya's voice was like venom as her voice turned to steel just as her father's used to turn; Arya tightened her knotted hands together, watching as her pale white fingers turned stiff and unmoving.  _If there is a God of Death, let him hear my prayers and let him kill all those who have betrayed my family._

"Arya, you should not let yourself to think like that," Gendry scolded in a tone that reminded her so much of Jon. How Arya wished to see her half - brother again, to have him smile kindly at her, to laugh and ruffle her hair and call her 'little sister.' If there was one thing Arya wished to have before she died, it was to hug Jon and have her believe that she was safe. Arya shook her head at foolish and stupid thoughts. Arya wasn't like baby Rickon who demanded attention from family; Arya was a wolf from the North and she would kill those who would dare to step in her way.

"They betrayed my father," Arya whispered in a shaky voice. "They killed him. My mother had been scared of him going South because the last Starks that ventured down there never returned. I want them all to die. I want to take everything they love from them, to see the light die from their eyes!"

Arya was shaking but it was not from the cold; her hands were covered all in mud and she clenched her jaw tightly shut with so much force she felt as though her teeth might shatter. Despite her emotions, Arya did not let them project her voice; her voice was unusually calm even as she spat the last sentence.  _Gendry probably pities me,_ Arya decided with an uneasiness settling within her,  _he wishes that he had not spoken to me at all now all those days ago on the King's Road to the Wall._ Despite her thoughts, Gendry's hand on her shoulder did not loosen or disappear. Rather, Gendry moved his body back down so that he lay face to face to Arya with the scowl still on his face. A part of Arya wished that he would smile so that it would prove that not everyone was as emotionless as she felt.

Gendry's hand moved from her shoulder to her wrung hands and with one hand he engulfed hers with his big paw. It felt odd for her; did she consider Gendry a friend now? Did she trust him?  _Yes,_ she hesitated,  _I do._ Gendry may have been rude, unbearable at times, frustrating, stubborn and annoyed her to no ends but she could trust him. He was probably the only person in the world Arya trusted now.

As Gendry went to open his mouth in order to speak the sound of the storehouse door slamming open made them snap their heads up; the guards were drunk and it was obvious what they wanted. Arya seized up as she saw the head of the group: it was  _him_ , that bastard who had promised he would come for her. And he did. In the dark, he could not see her face but Arya could see his; it was an ugly thing, with a squashed nose and buggy mud coloured eyes. Whiskers grew in patches upon his cheeks and his mouth was so thin Arya thought it did not exist. He was chubby and had a limp when he walked. Arya gripped Gendry's hand as her wide eyes went to his own ones. They shined so brightly in the dark.

"He's going to pick me," Arya mouthed in desperation. "Don't let him pick me." What could Gendry do? There were six of them and Gendry was chained. They had swords and dirks at their belts but they were drunk. Could they run? Gendry's eyes searched Arya's face for a still moment; Arya wondered if all he saw was a little girl begging for help. Their voices were slurred and thick with the wine they had been drinking and Arya's throat closed in.

Without another word, Gendry had moved his hand to place it under her head (slipping the chains from the shackles on his wrist underneath her neck), pulling her to his body as he rolled her underneath him. Gendry kept his weight on his elbows and made his body relaxed enough so it appeared that he was asleep. Arya's head slipped beneath Gendry's chin; she tried to make herself small as possible but there was no point as Gendry could easily hide her small and thin frame. Arya placed her hands between them and steadied her breathing.

Gendry smelt of rain, sweat and dirt and his body was warm, bringing relief to her cold body. Arya stayed as still as possible as the footsteps neared the both of them; Gendry's legs had tangled with her own small ones in such a fashion that she had entirely disappeared. Arya felt her heart accelerate as she glimpsed the shadow of someone walking past them, pausing for a moment before moving on. She did not move and hardly dared to even breathe as the men continued to walk around. When they had picked a girl, she screamed and cried.

Arya felt sick with herself as she was relieved that it was not her. When the door shut, Arya could breathe. Gendry paused for a moment to make sure they would not return before he took his weight off of her. Arya was cold again as the wind attacked her. Without thinking Arya placed her hands on Gendry's chest to grip at his damp clothes with stiff fingers.

"I'm cold," Arya murmured to him, her legs still tangled with Gendry's. He was warm which was a thing of the past for Arya. Still, Gendry did not move as Arya's fingers gripped his shirt tighter as though waiting for him to move away. The last time Arya had any form of contact that did not harm her was a blur, a muddy memory that could not resurface.

Arya slept that night with no thoughts of death.

* * *

 

It was on the eighth day that Arya felt hope of actually living despite everything; her, Gendry, Hot Pie and the other survivors were told that they were to be sent to Harrenhal to serve Lannisters and Lannister men. Arya was practically a slave but she was alive and all she had was a healing lip, yellow bruises and damaged pride. They were marched out into the open world, the air thick with blood and smoke. Arya stuck close with Gendry and Hot Pie, her eyes staring at the bodies that were chained to the gibbets.

Flies surrounded the rotten flesh and maggots curled themselves within empty eye sockets. The smell was more than she could handle but Arya forced herself to breathe in, trying to not let it get to her. A crow cawed upon a corpse, its beak snapping at the soft eyeball; Arya watched as the bird took the eyeball in its beak with a deafening caw. Arya had been so engrossed in her staring that she jumped when Gendry placed a hand on her elbow. Arya's eyes snapped up to meet his own disapproving gaze.

The only reason Gendry had been allowed to stay was because he was a smith, something that the people in Harrenhal had been in dire need of. Arya had sighed with relief when she had learned the knowledge that Gendry would travel with them amongst the group of women, children, very young and very old men. There were very few women and even fewer girls; most were older than Arya and she had found herself uncomfortable to be lumped in with the boys and the men. But she had Gendry and Hot Pie and that was all that mattered.

The thought of serving Tywin Lannister made Arya's stomach tighten and her heart to inflame; she felt sick at even thinking about Tywin Lannister whom she had still yet to meet. Arya imagined him as a man as large as Gregor Clegane with the infamous Lannister blonde hair and green eyes; she had always heard of how powerful the head of House Lannister was since she was a child. She had heard the whispers of how he had coated the bodies of Rhaegar's wife Elia and the children Aegon and Rhaenys in the cloaks of Lannister red to presumably hide the amount of blood and the mutilation of their corpses. Arya had never met the man but she was worried that he would recognise her Stark qualities such as her grey eyes and long face. Arya shook her head, thinking it to be impossible. Arya looked more like an ugly boy than she did an ugly girl with her short hair and flat chest.

The march was long and silent between the prisoners with the mud beneath their feet slurping as they struggled to keep at a pace the soldiers liked. Arya reminded herself to keep beside her two friends as to be unseen by the soldiers. It was becoming difficult to keep her gender a secret as she tried to hold in her water. More than once Arya had had to piss her pants because she could not keep it in any longer. Her face had been red and hot with shame as she lay in the dark with her pants wet; Arya felt disgusted with herself for wetting herself like she was two all over again. When Gendry had found about it, he told her that should she feel the need any more he would sneak her off and make sure no one was watching as she relieved herself.

The worse times were when the sun started to go down and in its place rose the waxing moon; over the sounds of girls crying and men laughing, Arya said her prayer with more names being added.  _Joffrey, Cersei, Illyn Payne, Meryn Trant, the Hound, the Mountain, Amory Lorch, Polliver, the Tickler, Chiswyck, Raff the Sweetling._ Her loathing gave Arya fire, gave Arya the strength to keep walking and hoping that one day Needle would return to her and she would kill them all. She hardly slept at the horrible sounds, covering her ears and curling up into a ball as her fingers knotted painfully in her hair.

Not even Gendry could stop the sounds no matter even if he forced her to turn away, held her to him or covered her ears himself.

The others kept whispering how it would be better at Harrenhal, that they would be fed decent food and that they would have places and beds to sleep in. Arya wanted to roll her eyes at their naivety but she couldn't help the little flower of hope bloom inside her too. Could it be here that she might escape the clutches of her captors?

Harrenhal was just like the stories Old Nan would tell her; the walls were the size of colossal mountains and it all seemed like a shadow in itself with its melted stone that was said to have been brought down by Balerion the same day the last stone was set in place. The Five Towers rose high in the sky, their names to any living person was lost upon the wind, memories of ghosts. They had been given new names that matched the horridness of the entire place: the Tower of Dread, Widow's Tower, Wailing Tower, Tower of Ghosts and the Kingspyre Tower. Despite everything, Arya could not help but let herself be in awe of the legendary castle. The towers were like dark fingers upright of a palm of fertile grass around it. Arya halted in her steps with her mouthed agape as she tried to drink in everything.

"What sort of fire melts stone?" Gendry murmured in a low voice of shock and awe beside her. Gendry's was near to be completely healed with his eyes going back to its normal size and turning a pale yellow. His lips were no longer torn and the cuts on his face were turning a pale pink. The dark circles underneath his eyes were no longer as serious and he had gained a new sort of strength from what Arya didn't know. Arya turned her eyes away from him to where he was staring with a blank look on her face.

" _Dragons_."


	5. A Man Always Pays His Debts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amidst the war ravaging the land of Westeros, a lone Stark must find her way home, to her true family.
> 
> And yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I do not own any of the characters, places or story lines (unless stated otherwise) mentioned in the work; they all belong to their owner: G.R.R Martin  
> \- Mostly original dialogue.  
> \- A work of fiction previously known as "The Bull and the Wolf."  
> \- comments are very much appreciated!  
> \- for any more information, check out my profile!

**_Chapter Five_ **

The clothes that had been given to Arya scratched at her skin and the pants were so big on her that she had to tie it with a belt around her waist. Her hair was once again clean and her face was fresh; Arya's shoes were starting to bite at her toes, giving the hint that she had grown much since her escape of King's Landing. The bones in her legs were sore from their growth and her fingers brushed above her knees. Her hair tickled annoyingly at the nape of her neck and at her chin having gotten long enough to be swept behind her ears.

Arya had been assigned as a cup bearer and, whilst she definitely was better treated and ate more, Arya still could not wait to leave. Every day there was the fear that someone would recognise her or get the hint she was of the North and everything for her was over. What was worse, the person she had been assigned to serve was none other than the monster Tywin Lannister. He was nothing that Arya imagined; he was a man of normal height with a bald head and neatly trimmed whiskers on his cheeks. His green eyes, the famous emeralds of the Lannister house, were piercing and cold. Arya spent her time with her head kept down, letting her hair falling over her face in hopes that he would not recognise the Stark grey eyes or wave aside the traditional Northern brown hair. But Tywin Lannister was no fool and he could not be tricked even by Arya's cunning and quick mind.

He had instantly seen right through her, his cold eyes staring long and hard at her face as if trying to see what thoughts were flitting through her worried mind.  _Calm as still water,_ Arya chastised herself whilst keeping her face blank but her hands were slick with sweat. Arya could not let the worry and fear get to her head, not if she wanted to survive or not get recognised. But what she to do? To let herself fetch wine for him, to get his food and his letters?  _Yes,_ she realised with a sickening feeling in her stomach,  _if I do not wish to be found out as Arya Stark, I must not act like Arya Stark._ She had given the name Nan to him, making the lie she was from Maidenpool.

At times, she could feel the eyes of the other officers on her as she went to fill their cups with more wine; it made her skin crawl and her stomach twist and turn but Arya ignored it - she had to.  _If I do not misbehave, they will not become suspicious and discover who I am,_ Arya thought to herself in a mantra.  _If I do not misbehave, I may have a chance to see Gendry and Hot Pie._ Arya had not seen her friends in a long time and Lord Tywin was in no rush to let her see them; do not speak unless spoken to, do not move unless asked and keep focused were the rules Arya laid down for herself but it proved difficult with her naturally disobedient nature.

Truthfully, she had talked and met with Hot Pie down in the kitchens where he was more than happy to be; more than once had he snuck her the burnt crust off a piece of bread and, more than once, she had been grateful. It was Gendry that Arya had only seen in a fleet passing in the forge; Arya wished that she could talk to him, to be in his company rather than that of the man who was set to kill her brother, to kill Robb.

 _The King in the North_ was what Robb called himself and he had gained enough support from Northern Houses for it to be true. Arya grabbed the material of her trousers and ran her tongue over her chapped and cracked lips. If he was king then she was, by rights, a princess. The thought was so unsettling to her; Arya was as much of a princess as she was a lady. What sort of idiocy was Robb entangling himself in claiming to be a King? With Joffrey, Renly, Stannis and now her sweet brother, a war was settling itself over Westeros.

Arya had heard enough; she was scared that the next time she would be forced to be within in a room with Tywin Lannister and the other officers they would speak of how Robb Stark died in battle and her heart was not able to take that pain. Though, as if hearing her thoughts, Tywin dismissed her and it took everything within her willpower to not run from the room. She closed the door behind her, letting the sound echo through the disturbed walls of Harrenhal. There were hardly any men up on this level and, yet, Arya took her time as her footsteps echoed like whispers throughout. Arya ran a hand through her hair, a habit she was picking up, and pushed the strands away from her face.

Soon, the hubbub of Harrenhal reached her ears along with the clash of steel and laughter of men. Arya ruffled her hair again so that her face was hidden from prying and wandering eyes. Her arm swung beside her, hands clenched in fists, as she tried to keep the thought of Robb,  _Robb_  who had still been practising with wooden swords when she left,  _Robb_ who was just five years older and had never fought a battle,  _Robb who had declared himself King in the North and was fighting - and winning, it appeared - battles against the seasoned Tywin Lannister._ A smile spread across her lips, dancing. She could get to Robb should she leave at this moment or maybe she could steal a raven and send him a letter. Arya shook her head at the latter, knowing it to be far too dangerous. But she had carried letters and sent some by the behest of Tywin Lannister and no one questioned her. What would one more be?

"A boy has turned into a girl."

The voice startled Arya, making her whirl around and stumble on her own feet. The shadow of a man was no mere shadow; it was a familiar face. The white in Jaqen's hair appeared cleaner than she had last seen him and the red appeared scarlet - like the armour he wore. The familiar Lannister red glinted in the sunlight and the lion roared upon the breast of the metal. Jaqen sported an amused smile, with a curious gaze in his eyes. He looked almost bloody with the redness of the armour and of his hair but he was still handsome even more so since his face was clean.

"I've always been a girl," Arya shot back as her arms wrapped themselves around her abdomen. Arya glared back at Jaqen whilst his gaze was softer, kinder. Jaqen gave a short and curt nod of his head, his hair falling over his shoulder like water.

"Of this, I was always aware." Jaqen's reply did not make Arya feel comfortable, if not it made her want to step away from the odd man. What was it he wanted from her? She had nothing to give - or had he come to thank her for saving him from a death of fire from within his cage. Arya could not help but be wary of him, just as Yoren said she should, but so far he had not hurt her.

"What do you want?" Arya inquired bluntly as she dropped her arms to her side with her fingers curled into fists. Arya wanted nothing more than to just turn around and leave him where he stood but curiosity held her in her place.

"A girl still has more courage than brains," Jaqen commented, not even bothering to hide the amusement that was painted across his face. Arya's face slipped into a blank mask; was he just going to tease and make fun of her? If Arya wanted that, she would have talked to Gendry instead. Arya chewed the inside of her cheek, her fingers gripping at the material of her pants. Arya knew Jaqen could see her uneasiness of the whole conversation.

"You stole three lives from the Red God, girl," Jaqen's voice dropped to a soft whisper, but still could be heard above the noise and clatter of the court yard. "These three lives must be paid for. If this girl shall name three names of her own, the gods will be satisfied. If the girl should just whisper her names, the man will do the rest."

That did grab Arya's attention.

Her breathing faltered as Arya's mouth dropped open with the only sound being her sharp intake of breath. He could not be serious, could he? Why would he take three lives, any three, with no disregard to why they must die? Would he kill an innocent person? Arya's heart began to flutter as she pushed out all thoughts; she could have him kill Tywin or Joffrey or Cersei. He could kill all three. She would then have no trouble returning home, to returning to Robb and Mother. A ghost of a smile flitted across Arya's face as she stepped nearer towards Jaqen, her voice a whisper.

"I can choose anyone . . . and you'll kill them?" Her voice was wavering but she did not care; sick giddiness burst within Arya.

"The girl may only need whisper a name and I will deliver," Jaqen replied in his soft voice. Arya swallowed roughly, not knowing who she should pick.  _Joffrey, Cersei, Illyn Payne, Meryn Trant, the Hound, the Mountain. Amory Lorch, the Tickler, Polliver, Chiswyck, Raff the Sweetling._ The names bounced around in her head, a headache blooming. Arya thought him to be joking; he was one of  _them_ now and she should not trust him. But, oddly, she did. Not in the way she trust Gendry or Hot Pie but she trusted him none the less. Arya opened her mouth to speak but her voice could not be found. She was hesitating but Arya did not know why; Jaqen bowed his head again, as if understanding. Jaqen leaned forward, with his lips at her ear as he whispered softly.

"A girl must think upon it," he breathed, his voice floating upon the air like water. "Return to me when you have decided on a name. Remember: the Red God demands three lives and you are the one who must give them."

Without another sound, Jaqen turned and walked away from Arya with a swish of red and white hair. Arya could not help but to stare after him, trying to wrap her mind around his words. She had the power between life and death at this moment; she could run after Jaqen and whisper a name. A sick giddiness spread within Arya as a smile bloomed across her face, not bothering to even hide it. Maybe, tonight, Arya could fall asleep with her list three names shorter.

_Joffrey, Cersei, Illyn Payne, Meryn Trant, the Hound, the Mountain, Amory Lorch, the Tickler, Polliver, Chiswyck, Raff the Sweetling._

* * *

 

"Hot Pie said you would be here."

The forge was hot; near unbearable as sweat ran down the back of Arya's neck, causing her clothes to stick to her back. The air was thick and Arya's clothes felt restricting to her and she ignored the need to push up her sleeves. Arya had stepped in and nearly let her mouth drop at the sight of Gendry; his hair was a mess, as though he had ran his hand through it multiple times, and there was a deep scowl embedded on his face. There was soot smeared on his face and he beat at a sword that lay on the anvil, sparks flying everywhere as the sound of steel sang songs of sweet music within Arya's ears. But Arya's eyes wandered to Gendry's bare chest and she felt warmth bloom across her cheeks though she did not know why; Arya had seen Jon and Robb without their shirts more than once so why was this different?

Gendry looked up at her entrance and, quite suddenly, a smile like a thousand suns shone on his lips. Arya faltered for just a moment; she had never seen him smile like that ever before, he only ever smirked, sneered, frowned or scowled and she wondered what had made him do so. Arya was stunned for a brief moment before she returned it. Hot Pie had told her he was here but had laughed afterwards, asking where else Gendry, a smith, would be. She had stolen his bread as pay back before dashing from the kitchens.

"I would have thought Lord Tywin would have worked you to death," Gendry jested, the smile still on his lips. Arya rolled her eyes as she walked in the forge, tearing her teeth into the still warm bread. Oh, how she wished to have a cup of milk for then everything would be perfect for the moment. Arya propped herself up, letting her feet dangle in the air as she tore off another piece with her fingers before popping it into her mouth.

"I hate for my legacy to be that I should die pouring wine for disgusting old men," Arya returned before she crinkled her nose up at the mere thought. Shaking her head, Arya welcomed the slight breeze that made its way through the forge. Arya did not understand how Gendry could withstand the heat. She glanced her eyes over at the boy, a strange feeling in her stomach as she realised just  _how_ he kept himself cool. Arya had been in the forge back home, back in Winterfell, many times, watching as swords were beat into life. But the North was cold and she was never really allowed this far into the forge.

Arya kept her eyes trained on Gendry as he lifted the sword from the anvil, weighing the newly formed steel in his hand; he swung it in an arc, back and forth. Arya's eyes watched Gendry's biceps as they moved, the sweat on his skin glistening underneath the sun; she trailed from his arms to his thick shoulders and down to his chest, trying to ignore the blush in her cheeks at the sight of the hair on his chest that trailed down and disappeared beneath his trousers. Arya's mouth felt dry as she took another bite of the bread. As Gendry continued to swing the sword in an awkward way causing her to roll her eyes.

"You should stand side face," Arya suggested as she continued to watch Gendry. Gendry turned towards her with his eyebrows quirked upwards, his blue eyes staring at her with confusion.

"Side face?" Gendry questioned, his arms limp at his side. Arya once again rolled her eyes as she placed the bread beside her, dropping to her feet. Ignoring the sound of the squelching mud beneath her shoes, Arya stepped her way towards Gendry, the heat of the forge causing a quickening in her heart beats. Arya stood in front of Gendry and stood her legs apart in a V shape, standing on the balls of her feet.  _Quick as a snake._

"You have to put your legs like this," Arya instructed, using her feet to kick lightly at the inside of Gendry's feet to place them exactly like hers. "Stand on the balls of your feet so that you can be quick."

Arya's hands reached up to place themselves on Gendry's thick shoulders to move his body so that they were almost chest to chest - well, more so chest to face. Arya tried to put aside the feel of Gendry's sweaty skin beneath her palms as she wandered her hands from his shoulders, gripping his free wrist to bring it to the other that gripped the hilt of the sword. Arya felt her cheeks turned warmer though she knew not why as her fingers wrapped around his hand to tighten his hold on the sword. Stepping back, Arya pushed back her hair from her forehead, sweeping the strays behind her ears.

Arya's eyes strayed upwards to meet Gendry's blue ice eyes that peered down at her in the most peculiar way; Arya felt as though she was suffocating within the forge and beneath Gendry's gaze as her hands knotted upon her stomach. Arya's face steadily turned redder and hotter and she wanted to dart from the unbearable forge. Gendry dropped the stance as he cocked his head to the side as he stepped forward, closer to her. Arya rolled her bottom lip in between her teeth as her heart began to beat furiously. What was wrong with her? Normally she would push Gendry away and call him a stupid bull boy but if she pushed him her hands would be placed on top of his chest and she did  _not_ want to do that. Arya watched as Gendry carefully lifted a hand briefly as he continued to stare down at her and Arya could not breathe.

And then he laughed.

Gendry stepped back and started laughing, bringing his raised hand to his hair, running the thick coal strands through his fingers. Arya felt her cheeks heat even more but more so of embarrassment. She could not  _believe_ him! Arya huffed and crossed her arms over her chest, pouting like she used to back in Winterfell when her mother would reprimand her for playing in the mud with Bran and ripping her dress.

"You're  _horrible_!" Arya whined as she stomped her foot on the ground as Gendry continued to laugh. This was so terrible! He was laughing and making fun of her! Arya let out a huff as she turned away from him, trying to fight her own laugh that was being caused from Gendry's infectious laugh.

"There's no need to be upset, m'lady," Gendry teased, reaching out and ruffling her hair as though she was something amusing. The act caused a painful pang in her heart and for a moment she did not see Gendry standing before her but, instead, Jon Snow; she could almost hear her brother's voice and his laughter as he lovingly called her 'little sister.' Almost, Arya reached out to wrap her arms around Jon but she knew that in front of her stood Gendry. And for a moment she wished it wasn't.

Arya swallowed thickly, a lump forming in the base of her throat but forced a playful smile on her lips.

"I am  _not_  a lady," Arya shot back but it was useless. Arya could not let it get to her, it was a stupid thing to get upset over but she couldn't help it. Her heart hurt as she tried to not let the memories of Jon Snow, of her brother, consume her. A part of Arya hated her mother for treating Jon for the way she had and for being part of the reason Jon left her; Arya wanted nothing more than to see him, to hug him and to hear his laugh.

"As m'lady says," Gendry retorted, bowing towards her with the sword still in his hand. Arya  _tsk_ ed and turned away from him and back to where she sat, taking the bread and continuing to eat. Arya did not even bother to try and keep her eyes away from Gendry as he went on to bang at the steel upon the anvil. What was the harm in just watching?

* * *

 

The moon was high in sky and it was bitterly cold. Arya stood up from where she squatted and tried to hide the embarrassment as she finished her water. They were within a secluded area of Harrenhal but it was the only place that Arya could relieve herself without being caught. Her breath fogged in the air, curling up lie smoke in the air. Arya's teeth chattered silently as she fought a yawn and the sleep in her eyes. Arya wanted nothing more than to just close her eyes and fall asleep.

"Are you done yet?" Gendry's voice echoed through the air, sounding impatient. Arya could see the outline of him through the dark as he stood not too far away. Arya stood up, pulling her trousers with her and tying the belt back around the hem. Letting out a huff, Arya swept back her hair again as she made her way back towards Gendry. It did not matter that there were no guards around or a danger of being caught, Gendry had insisted to stand watch for her; before she had just felt irritated but now she felt embarrassment and shame. Arya could not seem to get the thought of what happened earlier - even though nothing had happened.

"If it bothers you so much, why do you bother?" Arya inclined through gritted teeth as she wrapped her arms around herself in order to regain even a sliver of warmth. There were still a few people milling about the courtyard, most of them being servants as they dashed back and forth. Arya's eyes darted towards the guards that stood on watch, their eyes glaring through the darkness and through their helmets.

"What do you think a guard would do if he caught your with your pants around your ankles?" Gendry snapped back in a cold tone. He was being abrasive and it was hard to believe that not only a few hours ago he had been smiling. Arya let out a huff as turned away from him, a frown on her face.  _He is the most insufferable and stupid boy I've ever met!_ Arya cursed inwardly, her frown deepening. The silence was deafening and it made Arya feel uncomfortable because he had been right but it offended her that he thought her to be stupid and innocent.

The mud squelched at Arya's feet, with the silent whisperings of the courtyard singing in her ear. Gendry slept above the forge whereas she had small confined sleeping quarters that consisted of a small lumpy bed, a thin woollen blanket and stone. It was cold at nights and Arya never could manage to get herself warm no matter how many times she curled up into a ball with the blanket wrapped tightly around her. It was colder outside, though, as she stuffed her hands underneath her armpits, curling her fingers into fists as she ignored the pins and needles that tingled through her feet. Arya glanced at Gendry, wondering how he was not shaking and shivering like she was. He wore a simple leather tunic with a cotton shirt underneath. Arya turned her eyes away at the memory of how  _warm_ his chest had been when she placed her hands upon it.

Arya needed to get her mind back together; she needed to stay focused and not get caught or recognised. She couldn't go around acting like Sansa or her stupid giggling friends. Arya pursed her lips as she shook her head, scattering all thoughts. Suddenly, the sound of laughter evaded her thoughts and her eyebrows knitted together. Her hand darted out and wrapped itself around Gendry's sleeve. Arya stopped in her footsteps and manage to stall Gendry as he looked back at her, exasperated.

"Do you hear that?" Arya inquired her voice a small whisper.

Gendry adopted a frown as he inclined his head. Arya could hear a girl crying. Her heart seized in her chest as her eyes widened. Without warning, Arya let go of Gendry's sleeve and quickly moved forward, as quiet as a cat just like Syrio had taught her. She could hear Gendry call after her in a hoarse voice but she ignored him. Pressing her back up against a wall, Arya peered around the corner, her hand gripping at the disfigured stone. There was a group of men, drunk it appeared, and they were in a circle. They slurred foul mouthed things and they laughed afterwards; through the men and the gaps, Arya spotted what it was that had been amusing hem so far. There was a young girl on the ground, sobbing with tears like a river down her cheeks. A man lay on top of her making guttural sounds as he thrust into her. Bile rose within Arya's throat as she stared unblinking as the face of the man became clear to her.  _Chiswyck._

A hand from behind grabbed Arya, tearing her away from the sight of the rape; Arya's mouth opened up to let out a scream before it was muffled. She was being held and her vision was blocked. Strong arms enveloped Arya as her own lay limp and unmoving at her sides.

"Don't look." It was Gendry, she realised; Gendry was holding her, forcing her to look away from the sight of the vile scene. He was warm and he smelt of sweat; Arya's head barely reached his chin. His hold felt like a vice, strong but in a good way. Arya could not remember the last time she was hugged; maybe it had been Jon all those months ago back in Winterfell. Arya's face was pressed against his chest, the very chest she could not have stopped staring at earlier. Arya's heart beat madly in her chest at his sudden action. He had turned them away from any prying eye, with his own back against the wall as he held the small Stark girl to him, trying to not hear the sounds from the other side of the wall. Arya squeezed her eyes shut, Gendry's words came back to Arya, echoing around her skull.

_What do you think a guard would do if he caught your with your pants around your ankles?_

The cries of the girl soon seemed like screams in Arya's ears. Would that be her? Would that happen to her soon? Arya's breathing was ragged and shallow as she reached her arms up to wrap them around Gendry, fisting the material of his tunic tightly in her palms. Arya buried her face into Gendry's chest, pulling him tighter to her. If it hurt him, Gendry did not say. They stood there with Gendry's arms around her, her face buried into his chest and his chin resting on the top of her head, as Arya began to recite her list.

_Joffrey, Cersei, Illyn Payne, the Hound, the Mountain, Amory Lorch, Polliver, the Tickler, Raff the Sweetling, Meryn Trant._

She went to bed with one name gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! 
> 
> Once again, really short chapter but I have hardly any time to write. It was my birthday last week and tomorrow I'm going to Dublin to visit family; Not really that eventful but some more Gendry and Arya moments with a scene between Arya and Jaqen.


	6. The Red God Has His Due

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amidst the war ravaging the land of Westeros, a lone Stark must find her way home, to her true family.
> 
> And yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I do not own any of the characters, places or story lines (unless stated otherwise) mentioned in the work; they all belong to their owner: G.R.R Martin  
> \- Mostly original dialogue.  
> \- A work of fiction previously known as "The Bull and the Wolf."  
> \- comments are very much appreciated!  
> \- for any more information, check out my profile!

**Chapter Six.**

The sound of the rain hitting the metal of armour was the only sound Arya could hear; the early morning fog clung to the bones of Harrenhal and swirled around Arya's exposed ankles, the pale flesh splattered with the mud she was being forced to trudge through every day. Like maggots picking dry the long since cleaned corpse, Lannister soldiers milled around in small groups whilst leaning against the decaying walls of Harrenhal. In their hands were half empty cups of the piss tasting ale that had become popular amongst the men since the water ended up tasting even viler than the alcohol.

The rain fell from the grey clouds above, soothing the hair on Arya's head against her cheeks and forehead. Like tears sticking to her eyelashes, the fat, warm drops of water were nothing more than a mere nuisance to the Stark girl as she had been used to far worse weather.

Grey eyes as sharp as the summer snows in Winterfell and as stony as the faces of the Kings of Winter of old, Arya stood hidden in the shadows to find her target that had yet to be seen. Her clothes stuck to her already dirty skin and her shoes were starting to grow uncomfortable, pinching at her feet as the breeches she had been wearing since her arrival at the shadow of Harrenhal, which had been tucked up around her waist as many times as possible to stop them from falling down, were showing more pale flesh around her ankles than she liked.

Arya Stark was no longer a stranger to the hardships of a peasant life; no longer was she allowed to rest her head on a silk pillow or sleep on a featherbed and no longer was she even Arya Stark. Stitched into her skin was Arry, the bastard orphan boy, and Nan, a simple cup bearer from Maidenpool. But in her heart, Arya was a Stark, like the water that ran through the walls of Winterfell, the blood of the wolves ran through her veins.

His hair was what gave him away; red and dark as the suit of armour he now donned, Jaqen H'ghar stood with his bronze skin and red with silver hair. His clean shaven face now held a shadow on his cheeks and jaw all the while his hair remained as clean and soft as ever. Arya's mind briefly wandered to her sister Sansa, whose hair had been a deep auburn colour and would have considered herself in love with the strange man if he had been a knight.  _Sansa was stupid; I am not._ It had been  _Arya_  who managed to escape the Red Keep; it had been  _Arya_  who had left King's Landing right under the noses of nearly everyone that she was Arya Stark, the daughter of Eddard Stark.

 _I am a wolf,_ Arya repeated to herself, a mantra that was etched into her mind.  _I am Arya of House Stark, I am a wolf. I will kill them all._

Her body ached and groaned in protest at Arya, begging to her to sleep and rest for once. But there was no time for rest, not where Arya was concerned. To her, sleep was an annoyance and it would not be something worth indulging in while her enemies lived and breathed the same air she did and ate from the table that her family once ate from.  _They may have forgotten what they have done but I have not. I will not._

Arya's grey eyes were focused on Jaqen H'ghar's own face with her jaw clenched and eyes hooded; the purple beneath her eyes would have sent both her septa and mother in a flurry of anger and shock from the sight of the youngest Stark girl. But Arya no longer cared to play the part of a lady – if she had been playing the part at all.

Finally, the eyes of the older man caught Arya's own Stark grey eyes and held eye contact with her as he continued to drink from his cup. A frowned deepened on Arya's face at the action as the thought of how he would be able to kill someone if he was drunk crossed her mind but nevertheless, she pushed it aside and refused to be the first one to look away. He seemed to find his to be quite amusing and when he had put the cup down a smirk quirked at the corner of his thin lips; he had surrounded himself with the other lion soldiers yet they had not seen the interaction that passed between the man and Arya, too deep into their ale and their usual bullshit.

Cold and tired Arya was close to turning on her heel and finding somewhere relatively warm and hopefully peaceful enough to catch a few hours of sleep before she would be put to work in hopes that she would not end up falling unconscious head first into Tywin Lannister's dinner. Yet she stayed put, carefully watching Jaqen as he placed the cup down and made his way towards the shadows where Arya preferred to lurk. His hands lay lazily on the pommel of the sword that was strapped to his side with the blade flat against his thigh; Arya knew the sword had been made by Gendry, just like most of the swords that were being held by her enemies in Harrenhal.

The oddly coloured haired man stopped in front of her, eyes peering down at her as the smirk that danced on his lips continued; Arya had to lift her chin slightly in order to meet his eyes but still held her ground, managing to not let the closeness of his body intimidate her. The Lannister armour glinted underneath the pale morning light and the lion on his breast seemed to roar at her, warning Arya that she could not trust any man in Lannister colours. Her lips curled inwards in disgust at the sight of the suit Jaqen had donned and found it difficult to not want to call him a liar and a traitor for wearing it.

 _He's one of_ them _now; he's one of their dogs._

"You're one of them now, you're a Lannister dog," Arya commented with a voice that matched the coldness of her father's when he was not Ned Stark, her father, but when he was Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. It pained her to think of him even after all this time.

"A man is no one's servant but the Many Faced God's," replied Jaqen in his usual cool tone, the accent he had sounding odd in the sea of Westerosi. Arya scowled at his answer but did not look away from his eyes.

"You're wearing their armour," Arya remarked, the sight of the other soldiers around her as scarlet as blood being evidence to her claim.

"A girl is wearing boy's clothes, but a girl is not a boy. You wear a different face to survive just as I do," Jaqen quipped with a small smile that did not reach his eyes. Arya did not return the gesture. The nature of his friendliness was only established on her saving not just his, but two other lives and Arya suspected when their business had concluded, he would not be as willing to share his smiles as he was doing so now.

"I have a name," Arya finally confessed, her eyes breaking away from Jaqen's to dart around the space of the court yard that was slowly coming to life. Dawn broke away but the dreariness of the night showers clung to sky, like the snow that would dust her window sill back home in Winterfell.

Jaqen seemed pleased at her words as a strand of silver hair passed before his eyes. The colour reminded her of the fabled Targaryen silver hair colour though Jaqen did not possess the vivid lilac eyes that was famous amongst the dragon riders; the features that became known through the kingdoms had been more precious than gold to the point they had wed brother and sister to preserve the bloodline.

"A girl has chosen?" Jaqen asked in a soft voice that would be too low for anyone to hear them unless they stood next to the odd pair. Arya bit her bottom lip and nodded reaching up to sweep her hair back and blink the rain that clung to her lashes away.

Slowly, Jaqen leant down so that they were of the same height. He was close enough that Arya could feel his breath on her skin, it was soft and warm unlike the rest of her surroundings. His hair tickled Arya's cheeks but she did not move as she felt his lips near her ear, the stubble on his cheeks scratching at her own.

"A girl will speak a name and the deed will be done," Jaqen murmured softly, his voice swimming in the air as the Arya pulled back slightly to look him in the eyes, as if to search his eyes for any sign that he was lying. But it was impossible for his eyes were emotionless just as Lady's had been when her father had killed Sansa's direwolf. Arya remembered how Sansa cried and cried and still blamed Arya for the death though the blame lay solely on Joffrey's golden head.

The thought of Joffrey Baratheon send such an anger to her core that she almost had second thoughts of saying the name of Chiswyck before the cries of the young girl came back to haunt her.  _No,_ Arya thought,  _there will be justice for some where there was none for Father._

Standing up slightly on the balls of her feet, Arya cupped her hands around her mouth and placed it next to Jaqen's ear, her tongue darting across her chapped lips before she whispered, " _Chiswyck._ "

* * *

Arya missed Needle.

Needle was gone; lost like her family.

Arya tried to remember the taste of wine, the taste of meat and vegetables. Eyelashes fluttered against her cheek as her stomach rumbled in protest from the lack of food it had been denied. Arya wriggled her aching toes in her shoes as her teeth chewed on her bottom lip, forcing the thought of food to be banished from her mind.

It had been raining for a day straight at Harrenhal, forcing Arya to remain inside as to not get in trouble for appearing so shabby when she was presenting herself to Tywin Lannister. Her hair lay in thick clumps in her head and her fingers had not been able to sort through the tangles that were knotted in her brown, limp hair. Purple bags lay beneath her sharp grey eyes, giving her the appearance of a black eye while the dirt that smudged her nose, cheeks and forehead hid the true paleness of her skin that was common amongst Northerners.

Arya was not used to standing still for so long and her heart longed to have Needle back and to be able to practise her water dancing. Needle had been Jon Snow's smile and his hugs and endless love that she bore for her brother. Sometimes, Arya tried to picture what he would look like; would he have a beard like most men do when they took the black? Would his hair be longer or would he have cruelly cut it with a dirk? Arya's eyes were his and her father's. A fractured mirror of a thousand grey Stark eyes would stare back at Arya, a different name for each pair.

The thought of her brother made a permanent ache in Arya's heart that never seemed to go away; an ache for her family whom she thought she would never see again, not truly. Robb was not only a man who would no longer be able to play with her in the crypts of Winterfell nor bathe with the rest of his siblings like they used to do in the hot pool in Winterfell; Robb was a King now and she a Princess. Bran was a cripple and could be bedridden for the rest of his life. Arya remembered how they would wrestle in the mud as little Rickon would cheer them on, giggling and laughing. Baby Rickon would be grown by now and it was difficult to picture what he looked like after all this time away from him. Arya even missed Sansa who had been so cruel to her but they were of the same blood nevertheless. Memories of a time when Sansa was just Arya's sister and not some pretty lady drifted forward, the image of the two of them laughing as they threw snowballs at one another seared into Arya's brain.

Her thoughts would drift to her lady mother who would not just be grieving a lost husband but her daughters, one missing and the other a hostage. Was Catelyn Stark back home in Winterfell or was she marching with Robb?

Arya imagined that she would be wed off to one of Robb's loyal banner men like Sansa would be if she had not already married that bastard Joffrey. Arya would be expected to play the traditional Northern lady and wear dresses instead of breeches, to carry children and not a sword.

While she was physically in Harrenhal surrounded by enemies, far away, in another life, Arya was home and safe in the embrace of her family and the arms of Jon Snow.

* * *

The mud squelched beneath Arya's feet, making her remember how she would play in the mud with Bran and Rickon back home, as she tried to stifle the yawn that was threatening to appear. It had been three days since Arya had told Jaqen the name of the first person she wanted dead and yet he still lived. Anger bubbled and boiled within Arya's heart as she watched the man above her continue to drink and laugh and boast about the women he raped, including the young girl Arya had witness him brutalise.

She stood her ground as her eyes glared at him, wishing she could slit his throat and be done with him; alas, it was wistful thinking as she knew in her heart that she would die before the blade could kiss his throat. The rain had lessened to a soft mist and it had grown slightly warmer than the previous days and the clouds were rolling back to reveal spots of blue sky. But not even the prospects of warmer weather could brighten Arya spirits as her eyes continued to be trained on Chiswyck while he drank a flagon of ale, some of it dribbling out from the corner of his mouth and spilling on his armour.

"Glaring at someone isn't goin' to do much," Arya heard a gruff voice from behind her speak. Turning around, grey clashed with eyes as Gendry stood closer than she thought he would have.

He was covered in sweat and soot from working at the anvil with his ink black hair sticking up from where he had run his hand through the thick strands; Gendry stood tall with one hand gripping an unfinished sword while he trained his ice blue eyes on Chiswyck as well. The beard that was growing around his cheeks and jaw was thick and as black as a shadow and caused Gendry to look much older than he actually was; she had seen precious little of Gendry over the two days they had been separated and now that she was around him it felt like the earth beneath her was real, solid; maybe it was to do with the fact he was someone she could trust. Or the familiarity of his face had made her lower her guard, a move that she had unsuspected. As Arya's eyes took him in she wondered briefly wondered if things had been different, if she had still was known as Arya Stark to everyone and her father wasn't a branded a traitor and beheaded, would she have ever met Gendry.  _No,_ Arya concluded,  _I dare say we would have never have met._

Arya glowered at Gendry's words, the first words he had said to her in two days, and turned her eyes back to Chiswyck. "It doesn't matter. He'll get what's coming to him."  _Soon_ , her mind whispered,  _soon he will die._

Arya could feel Gendry's eyes on her as if wanting to snort at her being naïve but she ignored him as her teeth began to chew her already chapped lips; when was the last time she ate? It must have been yesterday morning the earliest, or maybe even the night before. The days had begun to blur in Arya's mind and she was losing count of the days.

"You'll be waiting a long time," Gendry mused as Arya looked over her shoulder to see he had made his way to stand beside her. Arya could feel the heat of his body even though there was a small space between them; Gendry was tall for his age and it seemed he would not stop growing for a while yet. Arya's legs were beginning to ache as she found herself growing too just at a rather slow pace and still she was nowhere near as tall as Sansa had been at her age and huffed at the idea at being this small for the rest of her life.

"What makes you think that?" Arya questioned as Gendry turned his gaze to her, the ice in his eyes standing out amidst all the grey clouds and black melted stone. He slowly twirled the pommel of the blade in his palm with his fingers as he rolled his weight to one leg so that he stood closer to Arya; the mist that fell from the sky landed in his hair, making it look like the strands were dotted with miniscule diamonds.

"Wicked bastards like him always seem to escape death," Gendry answered, pleased with his answer as a single bead of rain water rolled down the bridge of his nose and curled beneath his chin. Drops clung to his thick, black eyelashes and he blinked them away as he reached his free hand up to wipe away the rain on his upper lip. His facial hair reminded her of when her brothers and Theon Greyjoy would try to grow a beard only to end up having to have it shaved off; Arya could hardly see the scowl that was permanent on Gendry's face.

"Not him, not this time," Arya admitted, stubborn in her belief that Jaqen H'ghar would stick to his promise and kill Chiswyck; if he didn't, Arya would have to do the deed herself and most likely end up dying in the process.

Gendry's eyes studied her face as she spoke, narrowing at the words while he turned his body to face her and bowing his head so he could speak lower and not risk anyone over hearing their conversation. His hair had gotten longer and the fringe brushed against his eyes no matter how many times he brushed it out of his sight.

"What are you talking about? Are you goin' to kill him yourself?" Gendry inquired his voice deep but soft with his thick eyebrows knitted together in confusion.  _Gendry always seems to be easily confused,_ Arya mused as she had to jut her chin out to meet his eyes, her face lifted towards the sky so she could feel the raindrops caress her cheeks and eyelids.

"No, but I have someone who will," Arya confessed finally with a small voice in a whisper as she swallowed thickly to soothe the dryness in her throat.

Arya watched as the elder boy's face stayed scrunched up for a brief second before his eyes widened and his mouth parted to let in a sharp gasp. He stood up quickly with his eyes darting around to see if any lingering gazes had settled on them before he grabbed Arya's arm, his large hand wrapping itself around her thin upper arm. There was no point in struggling as Arya knew that Gendry was far stronger than her and would only end up drawing attention to the both of them. For every step he took it was two for Arya and she ended up having to speed walk to keep up with him.

Gendry had pulled her into the forge where it was, while stifling hot, quiet and not a soul to be seen within. Already a sweat was being worked up from beneath Arya's clothes and she cringed at the feel of the warm air. Gendry's arm moved from her upper arm to both of them being placed on her shoulders, the sword he kept in one hand falling to the dirt beside their feet.

"Arya, are you mad?! What are you talking about?!" Gendry demanded all the while keeping his voice only to above a whisper but Arya knew he was angry.

She bit her lip as she forced herself to stare into Gendry's eyes; it was unsettling to have his face so close to hers to the point she could see the light freckles the dotted his nose and beneath his eyes. His breath was hot on her skin and caused her heart to skip a beat from the heat of the place. Arya swallowed again and decided not to bite her tongue and instead tell the older boy the truth.

"There's a man," Arya started softly. She paused slightly before shaking her head internally, chastising herself for being a craven and wanting to not tell Gendry. "He's helping me."

"A man?" Gendry repeated as if he was an idiot.  _He probably is_ ¸ Arya sneered internally as she watched him blink thrice before standing straight up but keeping his hands firmly on her shoulders. "What do you mean he's 'helping' you?"

Arya wanted to roll her eyes at his stupidity but decided against it; instead she took her bottom lip between her teeth and wondered how much of the truth she should tell Gendry. Arya stared up at Gendry and had to remind herself that he had kept her secret of being Arya Stark and being a girl from everyone, that he was the only person she could trust at this moment. The heat from his hands on her shoulders was seeping into her skin and she the blood beneath her pale skin to rush up her neck and to bloom across the canvas of her cheeks.

"Back when we were attacked and Yoren died… I helped him escape with two other prisoners," Arya confessed.  _There's no going back now._ "He told me… he told me that because I stole three lives from the Red God and that I could name any three people to take their places."

At her confession Gendry could only blink. "And that's it? He's not making you… do anything for it?"

His words were stressed but Arya's eyebrow's knitted together at his words; what would Jaqen H'ghar want? It was not like she could do anything like take three lives for him. Arya didn't even have Needle any more to defend herself with.

"Like what?" Arya inquired, eyes gazing up at Gendry in curiosity.

Arya swore that she could see Gendry's cheeks redden beneath his beard but she knew it was due to the heat in the forge. His grip on her shoulders tightened for a moment before Arya reached a hand up to wrap her thin fingers around his wrist as a means of comfort of some sort.

"He wouldn't be able to do anything if he tried," Arya sneered wickedly as a think smile spread across her face. "I would kill him before he had the chance."  _With what? You don't even have Needle any more._

Gendry sent her a fleeting smile at her words and she knew that he probably didn't believe her even though she meant what she said; Arya would break the hand, or better yet the neck, of anyone who tried to lay a hand on her.  _I am a wolf; I am a wolf and they will all_ die.

Gendry's hands were warm and squeezed her shoulders tightly though not in a painful manner; a small breeze from outside the forge caused a shudder to run up Arya's spine with goose bumps rippling across her pale skin beneath her clothes. Gendry did not seem bothered by the warmth at all having grown up used to the heat of the forge; he wore a simple, dirty grey tunic with the sleeves ripped off so that his thick upper arms were on display. Arya wished for a bath so that she could rid herself of all the dirt and sweat that had accumulated over the time she had left King's Landing.

Arya didn't realise how close Gendry's face was to hers as she stared into his eyes; his nose was a hair width from being straight, his eyelashes thick and long as they brushed against his cheeks when blinking. He would be handsome if not for the dirt and soot that seemed permanent on his face and if the beard that he was growing was trimmed neatly.  _Maybe if in another life he had been a knight it would have been different._

As the thought drifted through her mind Gendry pulled back with his hands dropping from her shoulders to hang beside him as the usual frown on his face deepened. Arya didn't like it when Gendry frowned; he had a nice smile, a sweet one that reminded her of Jon Snow and a better time. Pursing her lips, Arya reached up to scratch the back of her neck and swept the hair from her eyes; the sword that lay in the dirt was picked up by Gendry as he twisted the unfinished blade in his hand.

Arya bit her lip as she watched the metal glint, a question itching at the back of her mind.

"Can you make me a sword?"

Gendry turned his body to look at her, an eyebrow quirked up so it disappeared beneath his thick black hair. Arya kept her bottom lip between her teeth as an embarrassed blush darkened her cheeks. She was ashamed to admit that she missed the feel of swinging a sword and moving as swift as a water dancer.  _Swift as a deer; fear cuts deeper than swords._

"What would a lady like you want a sword for?" Gendry teased as the corner of his mouth tilted up slightly. Arya wanted to scoff at his calling her a lady since Arya knew ladies were supposed to be tall and pretty and graceful; not to be dressed in breeches and covered in dirt. Arya was no lady: she was a fighter.

"I'm  _not_ a lady," Arya hissed at Gendry who all but ignored her. A terrible need to push him and stomp her foot arose but Arya ignored it as she crossed her arms across her chest. "And I know how to actually use a sword." The Stark girl resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him.

"You already have a sword," Gendry pointed out with a snort with the teasing smile on his lips more prominent. The thought of Needle sent a pang through Arya Stark's heart; she had lost not only her father and her sister, but she had lost Needle and with it, the only thing she had of home, of Jon Snow.

"They took Needle," Arya admitted in a lot tone dropping her eyes to the ground as her breath hitched from the words.  _They stole it, they took it. I'll kill them; I'll kill them all._ Gendry's snort drew Arya from her thoughts causing her to meet his eyes again.

"You named your sword?" Gendry teased voice full of amusement as his ice blue eyes shone. "Why would you name your sword?"

 _He's laughing at me,_ Arya noticed as she scowled at him. Arya didn't like it when people laughed at her, especially stupid, bull headed boys. She was Arya Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Stark and she was a wolf.

"My brother gave it to me," she relented with the truth and let it swim through the air. The truth was a dangerous thing when surrounded by enemies. But Gendry wasn't an enemy. He was her friend. The anger directed towards him that had briefly flamed her heart was gone and in its place was a tired ember, one that did not have the energy to burn.  _I wish I could return home, I wish I never left Winterfell._

The words softened Gendry's expression as his mouth lessened to a gentle smile like the one's Ser Rodrik would pass her way when she said she wanted to learn sword fighting; it was one of pity. It would have annoyed her if it were not for the fact she was too tired to be so angry all the time.

"Your brother?" Gendry's soft voice was something that Arya had not heard since her father – since before the death of Eddard Stark. Her thoughts wistfully went to the last time she had heard her father spoke just before he was beheaded by Ser Illyn Payne. A sombre look was cast onto Arya's Stark features.

As Arya opened her mouth to speak, to let Gendry know more about her, a sudden scream cracked through the air behind the two of them. Arya whirled around to the entrance of the forge and, quickly meeting Gendry's eyes, rushed out from the heat and into the cold of the morning. The sounds of more screams and shouting rang in Arya's ears as she looked around herself to see a group of people, all Lannister red, clumped together.

Arya's thin fingers wrapped themselves around Gendry's hand as she pulled the larger and older boy towards the scene heart racing and blood pounding in her ears.  _Please, let it be him, let it be him._ No one uttered a complaint as the two of them pushed through the bodies to see what the fuss was about as the cries of men and women alike became the only sound.

Along with the sound of rushing blood.

Blood was pouring from his neck like an endless stream, sinking into the dirt below with the earth heartily drinking up the scarlet liquid. Pale flesh like curdled milk was stained red as the blood poured from his neck where Arya could see the bones which should have been hidden beneath the flesh. No one tried to help the man with the broken neck who had fallen from the wall high up above Arya's head, all the while the dead eyes of Chiswyck seemed to stare at Arya.

Her mouth felt dry as she watched the scene; the sound of gasps and gurgling blood mixed in with horrified cries. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Gendry was equally as silent beside her as his breathing stalled for a brief moment. His hand gripped at hers as if to give her some form of comfort. But Arya wasn't scared nor disgusted at what she saw before her.

 _He deserves it,_ she decided as Arya made herself stare at the lifeless body while the shouts of men from behind her commanded for people to go back to work and for the body to be moved.

Her eyes made their way through the crowd, hoping to find the face she was looking for; he was at the back but the people finally broke away and he was tall enough that Arya could see him. He had an apple in one hand and he bit into the fruit all the while a small grin was painted on his thin lips. Slowly, he held up two fingers in response.

_Two names left._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and I return after nearly a year away. Dreadfully sorry, I must confess. The main reason I was away was because I just didn't know how to end the story. 
> 
> With the new season of the show, it has been easier and my story has been more laid out. So yes, as this story goes on it will drift further and further away from the books.
> 
> Anyway, hoped you enjoyed; this chapter was really a spur of the moment and for me to get back into the groove of writing.


	7. All Men Must Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amidst the war ravaging the land of Westeros, a lone Stark must find her way home, to her true family.
> 
> And yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I do not own any of the characters, places or story lines (unless stated otherwise) mentioned in the work; they all belong to their owner: G.R.R Martin  
> \- Mostly original dialogue.  
> \- A work of fiction previously known as "The Bull and the Wolf."  
> \- comments are very much appreciated!  
> \- for any more information, check out my profile!

**_Chapter Seven._ ** **__ **

Arya liked the cold; sometimes she would close her eyes and would pretend that she was back home, back in Winterfell, and that the sounds of clashing swords were the Northmen practising in the court yard, that it was Jon Snow and Robb laughing with Theon Greyjoy. Her mother would be walking the halls and chastising her for having messy hair and try to clean her dirty face despite Arya’s protesting; Nymeria would be dogging Arya’s heels as Bran, along with his own direwolf, chased her, laughing at the top of his voice.  _He never had the chance to give the wolf a name before he fell._

Maybe baby Rickon would have grown, all his wildness not contained by his parents with Shaggydog haunting the footsteps of wherever the youngest Stark would wander. Sansa would be even more beautiful than the day before, whispering beneath her hands to her friends, to Jeyne Pool. Arya Underfoot she was back then  _– no, I’m Arya Horseface._

But when the vision became too real, whether it was the smell of bread or Jon Snow’s smile to the sound of Old Nan and her stories, the ache would bury itself further and further into Arya’s heart to the point it became a never ending chasm that went down, down, down in Arya Stark.

And then Arya would open her eyes and her father would still be dead and she was no longer Arya Stark.

_Cersei, Joffrey, Illyn Payne, the Mountain, the Hound, Amory Lorch, Polliver, the Tickler, Raff the Sweetling, Meryn Trant._

The names were heavy on the young girl’s tongue, tasting of blood and deceit as, in her heart, she found herself wishing that there was a fate worse than death for those who betrayed her father, who betrayed House Stark, who betrayed the North.  _They will forget, but I will make them remember._

The death of Chiswyck had stalled her blood lust and caused a doubt to be planted in her mind, one that tasted like poison. Whispers floated around Arya, some saying that it had been the ghost of Harren who pushed poor Chiswyck from the wall whilst others firmly believed that it had been one of their own, someone inside the bones of Harrenhal. Jaqen was no ghost but he seemed to be like one, drifting in groups and then disappearing by the time she blinked.

_The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword._

Her father’s words rang in Arya’s ears; she wondered what kind of fighter would she be if she could not kill the men she condemned? If she could not muster the courage to drive the sword through Chiswyck’s heart, did he truly deserve to die? Arya shook her head as she told herself that, yes; he deserved to die and remembered that honour had no place amongst men in times of war. Life was not the songs that Sansa loved, where all the knights were valiant, honourable and good men and that all maidens were beautiful. Honour had killed her father but death would not claim her.

_Not today._

* * *

Hot Pie had managed to sneak Arya a large piece of burnt bread that tasted finer than anything she had since escaping King’s Landing; rats and pigeons had been her diet then along with dirty water but now she felt like she was indulging like she would back home in Winterfell. The piece was the size of her hand and Arya knew it would fill her small belly up enough to last her a day. It was black one side, something which had gained Hot Pie a hit to the back of the head from the cook, but Arya brushed it off with her fingers to sink her teeth into. Despite the dryness in her mouth and the taste of smoke it left behind, Arya found it to be the best tasting bread she could ever remember having.

The sun was setting itself down beyond the horizon, a few lazy golden fingers stretched across the bloody orange sky as the puffs of grey clouds grew thinner and thinner. Dusk was settling over the world and Arya wearily remarked how she lost count of the days that trickled by and she wondered whether her Name Day had come and gone already.

The world around Arya, the one she came to know, was peaceful after the murder of Chiswyck that had happened during the early light of the morning. The body was dumped in a grave and left to rot but not before they took the armour he had worn and the boots that were strapped to his feet. Arya briefly wondered of her own father’s body, of whether the bones had been sent to Winterfell, to home, to lie beside his own father, brother and sister and the old Kings of Winter. Arya wanted to speak to him, to know if he was at rest or was he forced to wander the world as a spirit, seeking revenge for the betrayal that fell unto House Stark.  _I’ll kill them; I’ll kill all of them._

The bread quickly filled Arya’s belly as she swallowed the last bite that she could manage down her dry throat; the rain seemed never ending around Harrenhal and Arya was at least grateful that she spent most of her days inside, tending to Tywin Lannister’s empty cup. Her feet ached from how long she had to stand and Arya amused herself by trying to remember the feel of what a featherbed felt like and the feel of hot water on her skin while scrubbing away all the sweat, dirt and grime that was building up on her body. Her nails were chewed down and Arya smiled knowing that her septa would have probably shouted at Arya until her face was blue, saying that it was unladylike to bite your nails.  _If only she knew how hungry I had been._

Arya pocketed the remaining the bread which was now reduced to the size of half her palm; part of Arya considered keeping the bread for another time but her eyes wandered to where Gendry was working and realised that maybe it had been a while he had eaten as well. She was sitting down on one of the fallen stones that had been lying there for longer than any of the men who now occupied the place who lived. No one had even spared her a look or scowled her way for which Arya was grateful. She had been dismissed by Tywin Lannister when the sun was turning from a hazy yellow behind the clouds to a soft orange; Arya begrudgingly admitted to herself that she was lucky in being his cupbearer and not having to do any real work that would put her in the sights of men who had spent too far away from their wives.

But already Arya could feel the changes in her body; her hips were wider and there was a dip in her waist, and her breasts were growing from beneath the tunic she had been given. Arya wondered if anyone would be able to see the changes in her body and the fear of it becoming a reality took a grip on Arya. She wished for a knife so that she could cut her already longer hair and made sure to keep her clothes loose and baggy as to not draw attention.

Pushing herself to her already sore feet, Arya brushed the bread crumps that were on her clothes off and brought her sleeve over her hand so that she could wipe her mouth, a few strands getting caught in the broken skin that were on her lips. The tip of her nose was red, like it used to be when the summer snow would dust the roofs of Winterfell many, many years ago when she had just been Arya Stark.

The cool breeze of dusk ruffled the thin, greasy strands of Arya’s hair as she walked over to the forge with the bread in her pocket as a dirty hand ran itself through her knotted and clumpy hair. Her lady mother would have demanded Arya to be stripped as naked as her Name Day and cleaned immediately had she seen her daughter in this state.  _But she can’t because she’s home in Winterfell._

Gendry wore no shirt as he hit the steel on the anvil, the sound ringing through the air like the music Arya used to hear Mikken make when he would make his own swords. Gendry’s skin shone with sweat, his thick black hair stuck to his forehead. His eyebrows were furrowed together with a crease deepening between them. Arya could see the result of sleepless nights beneath his bluest of blue eyes and Arya blushed at the sight of the dark coarse hair on his chest that trailed down and disappeared beneath his breeches.  _Stop acting like a stupid, silly girl who blushes around boys; that’s what Sansa does and she’s just a stupid pretty girl whose head is full of silk and songs._

The thought of Sansa caused Arya to falter in her footsteps as the corner of her lips fell downwards, a crease between her knitted eyebrows. Sansa would never have even looked at Gendry, would have never even spared the bastard blacksmith a look and if she had it would be to wrinkle her nose at the sight of the sweat and dirt that was on Gendry’s skin. If he had been wearing armour instead of making it and mastered saying sweet words to young ladies instead of learning to swing his hammer on the steel, it would have been different. Arya would have hated him if he was a knight, would have hated him if he was like Loras Tyrell and his pretty flowers and looked at her sister instead of her, just as everyone had done all her life.  _He would have called me Arya Horseface, too._  But, in the end, it did not matter if she wore dresses instead of breeches; Arya had always been a better boy than a lady.

Pursing her lips, Arya took the bread from the pocket of her breeches and coughed hoping to gain Gendry’s attention. His eyes met hers briefly and Arya couldn’t help the small quirk of a smile that ghosted around her chapped and broken lips. It did not matter if Arya never saw a blue sky again for the rest of her life because all she had to do was look into Gendry’s eyes and be lost in the warmth of summer and of softer, kinder times.

Gendry did not return the smile that Arya had passed his way and instead the crease between his eyebrows deepened. A sweat was already being worked up as Arya’s tunic stuck to her back all the while a rush of blood spread out across her cheeks and the tips of her ears. She didn’t know how Gendry could stand the warmth but, with a quick glance, she remembered how. Something fluttered in her belly but Arya ignored the feeling and chewed her bottom lip as her hand extended out towards Gendry.

“I saved you some bread,” Arya said sheepishly as Gendry continued to stare at her, his eyes dark beneath his eyebrows. She went to chew the inside of her cheek as she dropped her eyes from his gaze and stared at his shoes. “Hot Pie managed to sneak me some. I thought you might not have eaten in a while and I’m not really hungry any more so – ”

“I don’t care,” Gendry murmured as he looked away from her and ignored the bread in her hand. Arya frowned at his words as the small smile on her face disappeared. Her hand dropped to her side as she watched Gendry turn his back on her to grab his tunic that was slung over a stone and placed it over his head, mussing his hair up.

“What do you mean?” Arya questioned, confused and unsure of what had brought Gendry’s bad mood. A sullen look was on his face as he reached up to sweep the dark hair from his eyes only for it to fall back into place.  _He should cut it,_ Arya remarked as she watched him do the action,  _I should cut my hair as well so I can be a boy again._

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Gendry snapped with a gruff and hoarse voice all the while he ignored her eyes. He stalked towards her with his hands curled into fists, swinging by his side; he would have walked past her completely had Arya not grabbed him by the wrist and forced the older and taller to stop.

“What did I do?” Arya asked starting to feel as angry as Gendry looked. Who was he to look down on her?  _I am a wolf,_ Arya growled glaring up at the older boy.  _I lost my pack but I am still a wolf._ Arya dropped the hand that had wound itself around Gendry’s wrist but still stared up at him waiting for his answer as the silence began to envelope them.

He did not look at her, did not meet her eyes, but instead turned his head away so that all she could see was the back of his head and his thick, black locks of hair. His hands lay beside him clenched into fists as his bearded jaw was clenched, a muscle jumping from beneath the skin. Arya placed the bread in her pocket and crossed her arms over her almost flat chest.

“You had him killed… didn’t you?” Gendry’s voice was a soft whisper but Arya could still hear the anger and disgust beneath the words. It almost hurt her that he was disgusted by her actions but anger won out as her eyes narrowed up at him as Gendry turned his head slightly so she could see the side of his cheek, eyelashes fluttering against his cheek.

“Yes,” Arya admitted, exasperated by Gendry over the fact she had already told him that she had told him that Chiswyck was going to die.  _He’s just a stupid boy who can’t remember anything._ “Jaqen killed him for me.” The words tumbled off her tongue and past her lips; she had not seen the odd coloured haired man since Chiswyck’s untimely death and she was not quite keen to look for the assassin.

In truth, he frightened her some and Arya was half tempted to never speak to the man ever again, not even to give him a name. The fact he would so heartily kill a man who never wronged  _him_ and for whom the said man bore him no hate spooked Arya. Could Jaqen decide to kill her if he wished to? Would he simply slide the edge of his blade across her throat and be done with her, to not be indebted to Arya for saving his life? These new fears had been planted and were ever so slowly growing in Arya’s mind, causing her to doubt Jaqen’s loyalty to his Red God or to her. Loyalty was so rare and fragile to find in the South.

But he made her brave; made her realise that she was more than just a mouse girl who should keep to the shadows and cracks of Harrenhal. She was not a small girl but a ghost, like Jaqen, like the ones that roamed the crypts of Winterfell, and no one knew how much anger and loathing she was able to bear. Arya knew that she could be strong, like Jaqen.

Her words caused Gendry to snap his head towards her.

“Jaqen? That prisoner we travelled with Yoren?” Gendry hissed at Arya, lowering his head so that no one would have been able to hear the two. “You trust  _him_?”

“And why shouldn’t I?” Arya growled back as she jutted out her chin, lips thinning as she felt the anger towards Gendry begin to grow, the flames burning higher and hotter than before. It was not a matter of whether she trusted Jaqen; it was the fact Gendry seemed disgusted by her actions of deciding Chiswyck’s fate.  _He deserved it; he deserved to die,_ Arya chanted in her mind, more of a comfort to her than anything else.

“He was locked up in that cage for a reason,” Gendry scoffed, dismissing her easily like she was an idiot.  _I know he was locked up for a reason you idiot,_ Arya wanted to shoot back at him. It had been Arya who was the reason that neither he nor Hot Pie were dead; it had been her who helped them escape when Yoren died.  _And look where it brought us in the end,_ Arya sighed inwardly;  _we’re_ p _ractically prisoners to Tywin Lannister._

“So?” Arya retorted. “I saved his life; that’s why he’s helping.”

Gendry rolled his eyes at her words, snorting. Her cheeks turned even redder at the action as her own small hands curled into fists at her side. Arya wanted to hit him, to push him in the mud like she used to do with Bran whenever he would tease her about not being allowed to play with him or Rickon or practise with the wooden swords. Arya could act as unladylike as she wanted right now and she wouldn’t have to put up with her mother or her septa scolding her for being so brash and like a boy.

“Is that the only reason he’s helping?” Gendry muttered the venom dripping off his tongue as the words fell past his lips, confusing Arya. She glowered at him as he finally turned to stare into her eyes yet again.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Arya urged through her teeth with a clenched jaw. She was red faced and irritated with Gendry for acting towards her so. Arya didn’t understand why he was so annoyed at her and the decision for Chiswyck to be the first person she wanted dead on her list. Gendry turned away from her, letting out a long quiet sigh as he shook his head.

“You’re so stupid sometimes, you know that?” Gendry stated as his shoulders slumped.

His words caused Arya’s cheeks to turn a darker shade of red in aggravation.  _He’s the idiot, not me; he’s a bull headed bastard boy,_ Arya thought, enraged at Gendry. Sansa was stupid, not her; she knew how to fight with her own Needle despite it being taken from her. She was not some air headed young lady whose goal in life was to marry some fat lord and have lots and lots of babies with him only to die fulfilling the role of a perfect lady.

She was a water dancer, a Northerner, a wolf, a  _Stark_ ; Gendry was just a bastard boy who liked to punch his problems than face them. But it hurt, it hurt that he saw her as a stupid little girl. Jon Snow had been the only person who had been kind to her and did not ever try to make her something she was not. Jon Snow was the only family Arya would ever need and want. It had hurt when he left for the Night’s Watch just like Gendry’s words hurt. Like when Sansa would call her Arya Horseface and yell that Arya was a stupid, ugly girl that no one would want to marry;  _the pretty maidens are always the first to die but not me, I will not die without my enemies falling into their graves before me._

But Arya lost her sword and her enemies were far, far away protected by their own guards and their tall walls. Should Arya return to her mother and to Robb, she would be sent away when all she wanted to do was fight. But why would they want her?

 _Jon would want me if I went to Castle Black; he wouldn’t laugh at me and would keep me safe. He would help me._ Jon Snow was the only person that Arya needed, the only family she wanted at her side.

 “Fine then,” Arya snarled at Gendry. “Go starve for all I care!”

Her hands reached up to slam against Gendry’s chest in the hope to knock him over into the dirt and mud. Gendry stayed rooted to the ground as Arya pushed past him, with a racing and inflamed heart.  _I thought he was my friend._ Arya couldn’t afford to have friends; the more people she would care about, the more people she would end up losing. Arya heard Gendry call her name but she did not turn around to meet him nor stopped her footsteps as she stalked away, hoping to crawl into bed and slip into the dark realm of sleep. In her dreams, Ned Stark was still alive and Jon Snow smiled.

Arya made her way through the courtyard with Gendry’s words burning in her mind and heart. She felt so very, very tired as she realised just how alone she was and how the loneliness inside her seem to clench itself around her heart and chest, making it so very difficult to breathe despite the open space around her. Arya wished and wished with all her heart that she could be back in her own bed with Nymeria sleeping at the bottom of her bed. In her heart there was a hole the shape of Winterfell.

Arya wished there was no war, wished her father had not died and that she had agreed with her father by having both her and Sansa sent back home. She wished Robb was just Robb, her big brother and not the King in the North. She wished Bran had not fallen from that tower. She wished Jon Snow was still there, that he would hug her and call her little sister.

_Life isn’t like the stories Old Nan would tell us. There are no heroes. There is no honour amongst thieves and murderers and rapists._

Death claimed even the gentlest of souls.

As Arya walked further and further away from Gendry she heard the sound of boisterous laughter ahead of her. She managed to stop and find the source of the laughter; a small, ugly fat man with boils clustered at one corner of his thin and pale lips. There was a patch of thin mousy brown hair on his ugly head, ears sticking out away from him. He wore simple boiled leather and chainmail amidst the Lannister sea of red and gold. At his heel lay a spotted dog that was tearing into a chunk of meat with long yellow teeth, the sound causing a wave of disgust to sweep over Arya.

Beside him were three other men and Rorge who had followed Jaqen’s lead and was now wearing the armour of House Lannister, though he looked far uglier than Jaqen did. Arya curled her lips at the sight of the ugly man, turning her gaze away from the group so that she might be able to slip by unnoticed by them. Slowly and cautiously, Arya placed one foot in front of the other with her head lowered so that her hair fell in front of her eyes and the rest of her face. Her eyes stared at the trodden ground, knowing the way back to her bed like she knew every crack in crevice in Winterfell.

A pair of feet entered her field of vision in front of her and she only raised her head in time to stop and hold her ground before she could slam into the man. He was tall and thin with a wart above his mouth. He swayed slightly, a sign clearly telling her that his man was drunk and dangerous; Arya quickly dropped her eyes from his face.

“Watch where you’re going, boy!” snarled the man as he reached outwards to push her. Arya stumbled over her feet as she quickly regained her ground, biting her tongue as to not incite anger from the drunken man.  _Quiet as a shadow. Calm as still water. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Fear cuts deeper than swords._

Arya made a mumbled, half-hearted apology and made her way to side step the man and rush back to her quarters.

“I know you; you’re Yoren’s little cunt.”

The voice was slurred but familiar. It was  _him_ ; the one who had once threatened that he was going to fuck her bloody with a stick. Arya grimaced at the memory of the threat that rang in her head as her eyes glared at Rorge through the strands of her brown hair. She stared emotionless at Rorge who sauntered over to her, a vile smile on his equally vile face. Arya longed to have Needle back, to cut his belly open and let him bleed over the earth beneath his feet.

“I heard you was a girl now,” Rorge slurred as he stood beside the thin man, eyes falling on her. “Guess it’ll be easier to fuck you now that you got a cunt between those legs o’ yours.”

Arya took a step away from him but continued to send all her hate through the stare she was locked in with him. Arya had not added him to her list but, as the Stark girl stared at the ugly hairy man, she quickly corrected that mistake and vowed that she would kill him even if she were to die in the attempt. There was no sword strapped to his side but a dirk lay flat across his thigh and the thin man had a short sword on his belt thought Arya knew both were in no state to use them. But still, she remained silent to the point the taste of blood invaded her mouth from biting down on her tongue. The blood ran down her throat, soothing the dull ache of thirst but it made her want to throw up the little food she had eaten over the course of the day.

“Come on, you little bitch, I ain’t seen what you look like under those clothes,” Rorge growled, a sickly tongue darting out to flick itself over this pale lips, reminding Arya much of a serpent. His big hairy hand darted out and wrapped itself around her upper arm with such a strength that caused Arya to push down the gasp of pain that was making its way up her throat.

The fear caused Arya to remain blank for the briefest of moments before panic took over. She remembered the night she had unfortunately seen that poor girl get raped by Chiswyck; would that happen to her?  _No, it will not. I won’t let it happen._

“Let me go!” Arya hissed, yanking back her wrist and stepping away from the tall, hairy man. Blood rushed up her neck to her cheeks as her jaw clenched, fingers curling in to her palm so tightly that her nails bit at the tender area of skin. She would have turned on her heel, would have ran from that cursed place to Winterfell or to Castle Black.  _Swift as a deer._ But only cravens ran away and Arya was no craven, she would not turn her back to them for their knives.

“You’re just a fuckin bitch, aren’t ya?” Another voice chimed in as Arya began to realise that now there were three men in front of her and that her chances of survival from this confrontation quickly plummeted down to zero. Her eyes darted to the new man, the fat one with the dog, and concealed the shudder of disgust that ran down her spin as his buddy milky eyes roamed her thin frame.

_I am a wolf, I am a wolf; I escaped the lions only to be caught by rats._

“Rion here prefers little boys,” the man sneered, pointing at the thin man with his ugly lips curling up into an even uglier, sick smile. Arya’s tummy tied itself in knots but she kept her face emotionless; she would not let them win, would not let anyone break her.  _Calm as still water._

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth Weese,” growled the thin man, placing a hand on the pommel of his sword and, for a brief moment, they forgot Arya was there. It was her chance to turn around and go back to her quarters and disappear beneath the itchy sheets in the hopes that today would melt away. But the thin man simply stalked off from the fat man, Weese, and Rorge.

“I wanna see what you got hidden ‘neath those clothes, bitch,” Weese cackled, revealing his teeth, black and yellow as his dog’s. Rorge’s eyes trained on her as Weese wrapped a filthy hand around Arya’s upper arm, her heart jumping into her mouth. Arya’s mind raced as her Stark grey eyes searched for help, for Jaqen, but there was no one there who wanted to help her. No one wanted to interfere.  _There are no honourable men in real life; they only exist in Old Nan’s stories._ Arya was on her own.

Arya’s hand darted out with her claws ready.  _I am a wolf._ With a shout of protest, Arya scratched at the hand encased around her bicep with her claws tearing at the flesh. The action had been unanticipated by the fat, ugly man as he hissed in pain while his hand released the young Stark girl, snatching his hand back to stare at the four, thick lines that were oozing on his pale skin, like the ribbons Sansa would sometimes wear in her long, pretty hair.  _I don’t have pretty hair; boys can’t have long pretty hair, not here._

Fury exploded in Weese as his buggy eyes trained on her; there was no warning when the blow came to Arya.

His fist hit Arya’s cheek, hard and rough, as a white light exploded in her eyes. The pain rattled her body and made Arya want to cry out, to gasp. It was as if all the air had left her body and she couldn’t breathe; like when Bran and Arya and Jon, when they had been younger and softer, would see who could hold their breath the longest beneath the surface of the hot pool, to the point their lungs ached and black spots danced joyfully in their eyes. The left side of her face screamed in agony as Weese’s fist collided against the spot above her tender cheek. Her teeth snapped down on her tongue and inner cheek, the blood spilling forth and out, dribbling down her cheek as her feet stumbled back before the world fell.

Arya recalled, long ago when she was forced to wear dresses and have her hair braided, how she and Bran snuck off from their lessons, giggling as Maester Luwin called after them, frustrated but a hint of a smile on his face. The godswood was where they hid; the face in the weirwood tree crying blood and the gods whispering in the leaves.  _The gods are always watching._ She had climbed up, up, up the tree, sunlight glittering through the leaves. Bran had laughed at her because  _ladies aren’t meant to climb trees._ But Arya wasn’t a lady.  _Not now, not ever_. Her head had peaked above the leaves and her eyes drank in the sight of the early morning sun stretching across the white and green of Winterfell; the grey smoke lazily curling up towards the clouds with the birds singing their songs for all the world to hear. Arya had closed her eyes and, for the briefest of moments, she had found heaven.

Then the branch gave out from beneath her.

The agony was still clear in her mind as she remembered the branches hitting her, their rough fingers pulling at her dresses and her pale, tender skin. Bran cried and sobbed, hands over his mouth as Arya hit the ground, not being able to breathe.  _It hurt to breathe._

He took her hand as Arya stared up at her brother, the smell of the earth fresh and clean.  _We weren’t meant to climb the weirwood tree,_ Bran cried, _father said the gods don’t like it._ Was it punishment for defying the gods? Had they meant to kill her? Bran’s tears were dripping onto her face as he begged her not to leave this world before darting off to get help. Arya couldn’t move as she took her first breath like it was her Name Day. Her right arm was at an odd angle and her ankle was in agony. She had cried then, bringing her other free albeit bruised hand up to try and wipe away the tears but more quickly replaced the ones that were swept away. Her dress was ruined and there were leaves and dirt in her hair but Arya didn’t care.  _They can burn the damned dress for all I care._

Jon had come with Bran, his face bright with worry and fear with Maester Luwin shuffling behind, pale face huffing and puffing.

 _Ladies aren’t meant to climb trees,_ they said. Her father had scolded her, her mother had all but shouted that Arya would be confined to her room for the rest of her life should she continue to act like a boy. Robb had shaken his head and sighed -  _why can’t you just act like a lady?_ Sansa had said it was a punishment for being the way she was.

But Jon had stayed with her; had held her hand when Maester Luwin had to place her shoulder back into place. It was Jon who kept her company, sometimes with Bran trying to cheer her up. It was Jon who had made her smile when all she had were four walls and that damned sewing needle to keep her amused.  _I wish I could see him… just one last time._

Arya hit the ground, ears ringing as her brain rattled around in her head. The mud clung to her hair and cheeks, brittle and cold, as the taste of dirt and blood washed itself in her mouth. Her mouth and face throbbed as a deep inhale expanded her chest that was pressed to the ground. Arya could feel the watery mud seep into her clothes as her fingers dug themselves into the supple ground, coating her skin. Arya could see their shoes as laughter broke through the air, sounding harsh on her ears.

Arya had only been hit twice before but it wasn’t as harsh as Weese’s punch to her face. This attack was full of anger, hate and fire. Her face burned from the fire Weese had lit when Arya had maimed him with her claws. Arya could only watch with one eye open as she was flipped onto her back harshly with one of the feet that stood in front of her. The sludge on her face was heavy and thick, causing one side of Arya’s face to remain freezing while the other was burning beneath. The kick to her stomach came swiftly to Arya, making her let out a grunt of pain and curl up onto her side with arms wrapping themselves around her head in an effort to lessen the pain.

It was hard to breathe, hard to move and to think; another kick to her back caused a strangled gasp to tear its way through Arya’s dry throat. Her eyes slammed shut as she tried to picture herself far, far away from the grave of Harrenhal. Another kick to the stomach.  _Father laughing as Arya galloped around him on her horse._ A kick to the back of her legs.  _Mother’s soft hair, smelling like sweet winter flowers._ A blow to head, blood like a river pouring from her mouth.  _Bran letting me spar with him._ A foot to her chest, knocking all air from her body.  _Baby Rickon giggling and dancing around her._  A kick to her back caused Arya to gasp in pain.  _Jon Snow laughing, wrapping his arms around her and calling her little sister._ They hit her again but the pain was so over whelming Arya could not tell where the blow landed on her broken, frail body.  _Jon giving me Needle. Jon letting me sip wine from his cup. Jon messing my hair up. Jon letting me sit on his shoulders. Jon smiling. Jon kissing the scrapes on my knees after falling down._

_Gendry smiling at her for the first time._

Arya thought that they would beat to a pulp and that there would be nothing left of her for them to bury. She would die being beaten and no one would care and there would be no wolves howling in the night. She would never see Sansa, Robb, and Bran, Rickon, her mother or Jon ever again and they would never know if she had died, never know how she died.

Arya waited and waited for what seemed like hours, for them to finish, and found herself slipping away, slipping to a better place where she could sit in front of the fire with Old Nan telling her stories; Bran would be there, smiling with his Tully blue eyes drinking in Old Nan’s words with their direwolves lounging in front of them. Sansa would be there too, a pretty smile on her soft face with Lady’s head in her lap. Jon and Robb would be sitting beside them, fresh and young. Eddard Stark sat beside his Lady Catelyn with little fierce Rickon. Winterfell felt real and safe and warm in Arya’s mind.

Then it all went away, leaving Arya feel as if she had been stripped and left out in the freezing embrace of night during the winter. Arya drank in the air, gasping and floundering on the ground as if she was a fish out of the sea. Arya had only seen the sea once, when her father had brought both her and Sansa to White Harbour. But that had been in a past life.

Her face lay in the filth that clung to her greasy hair and eye lashes, her face puffy and sore just as her body was. It hurt; her body was suffering from the beatings as her split lip continued to bleed. Arya spat onto the ground, watching the blood that had gathered in her mouth sink into the earth. Arya lay on her stomach as she forced herself to take in loud and shallow breaths. Why had they stopped? Were they going to rape her? Would she be put out of her misery soon? Would she soon see her lord father and be in his arms again?

Her face was already swelling as the black spots in her eyes danced and teased Arya, laughing at her situation. Arya tried to move, tried to run, but her body was in a terrible state of agony making it too difficult to even move. But she had to; Arya couldn’t afford to lie down and let them hurt her.  _I am a wolf. I am a wolf. Fear cuts deeper than swords._

Arya could hear shouting above the ringing in her ears as her trembling hands dragged themselves from the vice she had at the back of her head to protect it and slowly lifted her body up, blood dripping from her broken lip with every inch of her screamed.  _I am_   _not some mewling pup,_   _I am Arya of House Stark and I will kill them all._

Arya reached up to wipe the blood away, smearing it across her swollen cheek and grimacing in the process. Knobbly kneed and shaking the ringing in Arya’s ears began to lessen as any chance of falling under the thin veil of sleep began to slink away into the back of her mind. She was covered in filth but it did not matter to Arya, not when she had been covered in dirt most of her life despite being a highborn. Her vision was blurred and Arya reached up to wipe away the dirt on her face, blinking away the tears that wanted to spill over down onto her cheeks.  _I won’t cry; I will not cry. Direwolves don’t cry._

It took Arya’s will power to not let loose the sob that had been building up in her ever since she had escaped the Red Keep. Someone stood before her, turned away, and Arya’s eyes hurt to look up. He stood with his back towards Arya, fists clenched at his sides with arms thick from all those years hammering at the steel. The light of dusk wrung itself through the locks of black hair on his head. Arya needed to get to her feet, needed to show them she would not break.  _I will be strong. I will be strong. Fear cuts deeper than swords._

“You got a lot o’ nerve, boy,” snarled Weese as he squared his slumping shoulders to intimidate Gendry but it was no use; Gendry stood a head taller than the fact ugly man causing the latter to have to glare up at Gendry. Her body was in pure agony as Arya pushed herself to her unsteady knees. The act itself caused a lightness to descend on Arya as, for a brief moment, she thought her entire body would collapse back into the mud. Her face burned and she wanted ever so badly to just fall into a soft bed and sleep away the rest of her life. But there was no featherbed for her; there hadn’t been for so long and not now.

“Leave her alone,” Gendry warned with a low voice.  _I can protect myself._

“Or what, boy?” Weese sneered, his boil covered lip tilting upwards. The fat man took a step towards Gendry, his yellow teeth on view. Arya felt like she was going to fall to the ground but it took everything within Arya to not give in to the sweet temptation of sleep. An arm wrapped itself around Arya’s stomach as she continued to wheeze with difficultly. She wished to see a Maester to help heal her but Arya knew that there was no one who could help here.

_Except Jaqen._

_And Gendry._

Arya thought of Jon then who had always protected his little sister, who made her laugh and teased her. But Gendry wasn’t Jon; Gendry could never be Jon.

_I wish he was._

The two men had been glaring at each other in silence before Arya reached a thin hand out to wrap itself around Gendry’s hand in order to get his attention. She wanted to thank him for saving her, to thank him for stopping them from doing even worse. But her stubbornness won out as she recoiled from any chance of Gendry laughing at her being wrong. Still, she shook her head ever so slightly, ignoring the feel of the drying muck on her face, as her hand gave his a small squeeze.  _Thank you_ , her heart whispered as her bloodied lips pursed into a straight line.

His blue eyes were rimmed with anger and there was a dark shadow cast over his ice blue eyes. He looked down at her and the scowl on his face deepened as he took in the state of distress Arya was in. Arya felt his thumb quickly dart out across the back of her own hand, feeling rough and calloused. Arya had gripped his fingers with her thin ones and tried to plead him to not anger the men any further.  _I have to be Nan now, not Arya Stark. I need to be a quiet mouse girl, not a wolf._

“Let’s go find Jaqen,” Arya mumbled with her voice broken and hoarse, tongue thick with tiredness and blood as she tried to let Gendry know what she meant, to let him know that she had chosen the next name.

And he did.

As Arya had said Jaqen’s name, she could see the slight paleness in not only Weese’s face but in Rorge’s too as his throat bobbed up and down with the fear glinting in his eyes. They were afraid.  _Good,_ Arya whispered,  _they should be scared._ Her grey eyes met Weese’s and Arya almost smiled at the thought of him dying a painful death. The men, in their new found fear, did not stop Arya or Gendry from turning away; Arya limped and continued to hold Gendry’s hand as she tried to even out her breathing as her heart raced from beneath her rib cage. If only she had Needle, if only she could kill them herself.

Her grip on Gendry’s hand tightened as Arya told herself that all that mattered in the world was that her enemies would die knowing she was responsible for their death as they were for her father’s.

_All of them must die._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's this? Another chapter update? Oh goodness me. 
> 
> i wonder if it's obvious that i love writing about arya's relationship with jon


	8. Family, Duty, Honour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amidst the war ravaging the land of Westeros, a lone Stark must find her way home, to her true family.
> 
> And yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I do not own any of the characters, places or story lines (unless stated otherwise) mentioned in the work; they all belong to their owner: G.R.R Martin  
> \- Mostly original dialogue.  
> \- A work of fiction previously known as "The Bull and the Wolf."  
> \- comments are very much appreciated!  
> \- for any more information, check out my profile!

**_Chapter_ ** **_Eight._ **

It was dark.

Arya was suddenly five all over again, hiding beneath the blankets of her bed; the light of the candle on her bedside table was a hazy sun from beneath the threaded blanket, orange and warm with a gentle glow casting itself over Arya’s dark bedroom. The sound of the winter winds breaking and howling through her window scared Arya as she curled up beneath her blanket, brown hair falling in front of her eyes as her little heart raced in her chest.

She was scared of the darkness and did not want to blow her candle out; her mother would not be happy to learn that Arya was wasting away the candle in the middle of the night.  _I’m a lady; I shouldn’t be scared of the dark._ But Arya wasn’t a lady; it mattered not if she tried to be as good as Sansa at her stitching or desperately tried to keep her hair soft and dress clean, Arya couldn’t be a lady. Sansa was a lady, though, and it seemed as if she had taken everything – their mother’s beauty and gracefulness – before Arya was born.

No matter how much Arya cried or brushed her hair, she couldn’t be the pretty lady her mother wished her to be.  _If only you just brushed your hair and wore a clean dress; then maybe you could be pretty._

Could, could, could, could –  _can’t._

Her thin, pale hands placed themselves over her ears as hot tears made clean tracks down her face, a sob wracking her frail body. Her fingers were still sore from the amount of times her needle had pricked the tips of the soft skin. It hurt very much so and Arya had looked in despair at the terrible work she had slaved over the entire morning; her stitches were too awkward and there were drops of blood on the thread. Her septa had yelled at her then, saying she would send Arya to her mother if she didn’t pay attention –  _why can’t you be more like Sansa?_

Sansa and Jeyne Poole had giggled behind their gentle hands then as Septa Mordane threw her hands up in exasperation, saying that Arya was to start all over again.  _Arya Horseface,_ Jeyne sniggered as she gave a mock neigh towards Arya while Sansa gave a short, girlish giggle at her friend’s bullying. Arya wanted to cry, wanted to throw her work in Sansa’s pretty face and storm off. But Arya was a lady, or she was supposed to be. But ladies were soft and pretty and knew how to sew, dance and sing.  _I’ll always be ugly;_ Arya almost wailed internally,  _no man would ever want to marry me. I’ll always be Arya Horseface._

Jon had called her pretty but that was only because she was his sister –  _Sansa said I was bastard even though mother swore I wasn’t._ Her father had said she looked like Lyanna but Lyanna had been given the gift of beauty by the gods. All Arya had been gifted was the ability to wield a sword better than her brother Bran and ride a horse better than most men.

The darkness grew thicker and fatter around Arya to the point it felt as it was choking her, drawing her in and smothering the young Stark girl; Arya wanted to call out, for her father, for Jon, for Bran, for Robb but her mouth was dry and heavy, tongue too lazy to use. Her body ached, pain licking every inch there was to Arya as the darkness swelled in her eyes, the hazy sun from beneath the covers puffed out. Arya’s wanted, yearned for the gentle touch of her father’s arms as he hugged her, for Jon’s smile as he called her little sister.

Something inside Arya was screaming, something young and fresh; there was no light and no warmth from where she lay beneath the covers and it felt as if summer was truly gone away, never to be seen again.  _Winter is coming._ Winter is here.

She was alone, lost, broken and beaten by the world and by the men; like a bird caught in a heavy storm, trying to get to a safer place  _but there is no safe place_. Everywhere around Arya was dark and desolate and she could not move a single muscle in her body, despite how much she screamed at herself to do so. Every hurt that was inflicted on Arya resurfaced from the deepest cracks and crevices of her mind.  _Arya Horseface. Stupid. Ugly. Ugly. Ugly. **Ugly**_.  She was Arya Underfoot, Arya Horseface, Arry, Boy, Nan, and _Arya Stark._ But she could not be Arya, not here, not when she could die for the name the old gods had given her. Red leaves, white bark, eyes ever watching and ever judging Men; her father’s gods, _her_ gods, stayed silent and unmoving as their fingers swayed and moved in the wind that they had used to wash over the earth.

Winterfell was all but a distant dream, a dream of happiness, of family.  _Home._ Arya had no home now, no castle walls to keep her safe and no featherbed to rest her nimble body on after the sun had set beyond. No silk dress for her to ruin, no trees to clamber up with Bran.  _No father, no Jon. I am a wolf with no pack._

But there was a blue, a bright blueness that reminded her of Sansa’s eyes but lighter, sharper, friendlier. Like when Bran or Robb would tell her a joke, or when Rickon would pull her aside to show her a bug he found with a grin splitting across his face –  _can you keep it a secret?_  It was a summer sky when she and her siblings used to bathe together; it was the winter roses that grow around the green grass of Winterfell.

Ink black against the brightest ice blue she had ever laid her grey eyes upon.  _A winter rose against the white snow, but this is sweeter, kinder._ An unknown fluttering in her stomach just liked what Sansa would say when she said she loved Joffrey; her beautiful face was lit with her pretty smile as a hand covered her heart. Arya had thought she was stupid then and she was stupid now. Arya didn’t sigh like the maidens in love songs and she certainly didn’t fall in love.

But it seemed as if Arya could only think of blue now when she thought of happiness; she felt as if she could live in it forever and never grow tired of it.

And suddenly, Arya could breathe.

* * *

 

The room was a hazy orange colour and it was warm, too warm in fact. Arya’s hair stuck to her forehead and cheeks, thick and heavy with mud. The sweat stung Arya’s eyes, the pain of thirst ached in her mouth and throat, as her eyes fluttered with eyelashes grazing across the tops of her cheeks. Everything burned and screamed in agony as Arya took a long deep breath, feeling as if it was the first breath she had took in her life. Her chest groaned in protest at the action while Arya began to soak in her surroundings. It was dark save for the single candle stub that glowed beside her on the ground. This wasn’t her quarters and she didn’t know how she had come to be here.

_The beating._

It was fresh as the bruises in Arya’s mind as the memories flickered. Arya had all but collapsed when she had walked away, darkness greeting her like an old friend. Arya didn’t know how she came to be here, lying in an uncomfortable bed wearing mud covered clothes and her face bruised and bloodied. By rights, she should have been back home, back in Winterfell with father and Jon and Bran and even Sansa. But she wasn’t; Arya was stuck in Harrenhal, stuck beneath the ever watching green and gold eyes of Tywin Lannister and his dogs. Arya wasn’t a child anymore; she wasn’t allowed to be one. She was ten and three years of age and that meant she had to start acting tougher, to realise she had to stand up for herself. But standing up for herself had resulted in the savage beating Weese inflicted upon her, being so full of anger and hate as his fists and kicks rained down on her like when she would rain kisses down upon Jon Snow’s laughing face.

Her bottom lip burned as her tongue darted out to moisten the cracked and broken skin, wincing as the taste of blood stung her tender pink flesh, a groan escaping from the bottom of her throat as a wave of heat became too much to bear. It was like when she was forced to wear her woollen dresses from the North whilst she, Sansa and father had lived the short time in King’s Landing. Heavy, tight and making it feel as if she were being cooked alive beneath her frocks and silks. Her hair had been worse to handle back then too as it stuck everywhere to her skin, to her neck, cheeks, forehead and back. Septa Mordane had begged her to at least wear dresses in the Southern fashion or wear her hair like Sansa did.  _If she saw me now, a boy with terribly cut hair and wearing breeches, she would collapse._

It hurt to blink her eyes as Arya turned her head towards the flickering light of the candle; she would be sore for the next few days and it would be a while before her bruises would fade away. Purple, blue and yellow flowers like the gardens in King’s Landing bloomed across her own body, like a garden in itself with yellowed grass trodden from people walking over it; her ribs were withered and broken branches, her bones groaning like the old weirwood trees back home in Winterfell. She felt old, too old, like the Old God’s that stayed as silent as the world was now with their red tears running down their pale face. They wept, wept for their brothers who were felled down in the South, wept for people forgetting them, they wept for Eddard Stark.

_I lost, I wept, and I will avenge him._

Arya’s thoughts wandered to Bran – Bran, who loved to climb the castle walls and scramble up the trees in Winterfell’s godswood like it was second nature to him. Bran, who she chased around the courtyard, both covered head to toe in dirt while their laughter sang through the air. Bran, who lay broken in his bed with Hodor having to carry him places. Father had said that Bran could no longer become a knight something which had been his dream since he could toddle over the floor. Did he know about Father’s death? Did he know that Arya was making her way back to him, to Rickon? With Robb and Sansa gone, and Mother most like with her eldest child, Arya was all they had and she them.  _That isn’t true,_ a voice whispered in her mind, soft and kind. It reminded her of Sansa but wasn't as cruel with her words.

She would make it back, she would return to Winterfell and to her brothers. Arya tried to think of the grey walls, of her own bedroom which lay untouched and was covered with a thin layer of dust by now. Arya couldn’t even remember what her lady Mother looked like, or what Robb looked like; he was a man now – no, not a man; a  _King_. He had an army and was winning battles with his own direwolf Grey Wind.

Arya didn’t have a wolf; hers was lost, gone into the forest where she might live out the rest of her days hunting down rats and birds to feast upon. Whereas Arya was a mouse girl, forced to listen to cruel men and be a quiet serving girl Nan.

Arya felt thin, felt weary as if she was being pulled in too many directions. Her good cheek pressed against the itchy fabric of the lumpy mattress, watching the flame dance like she would when she had Needle and when she had been a Water Dancer. Her hair was thin and greasy, falling into her eyes as the light continued to dance in front of her, the orange glow being too warm for Arya to handle. Slowly, Arya rolled onto her side, curling her legs up to her chest as her hands made their way to rest themselves beneath the thin pillow Arya had discarded on the ground and placed it beneath her aching head. Her tunic clung to Arya’s sweaty skin as the thin blanket lay at her bare feet, forgotten and unwanted by her; her mouth felt as if it was stuffed with hot cotton and her thirst began to invade her mind, becoming the only thing she could think of.

Arya couldn’t remember the taste of clean water, of sweet wine or of milk. She had been made to down dirty water and not complain about it and for the most part it was fine, but she missed being able to eat as much as she wanted. Arya tried to think about what would be for dinner in Winterfell, maybe some pork and roasted potatoes along with a wide dish of vegetable; Arya’s stomach grumbled in protest at her fantasy of a beautiful feast before her and she quickly pushed the thoughts out of the way.

Instead, Arya drank in her surroundings; it was a simple room with naught but the mattress and the candle stub being the only pieces of material in the room. Arya spotted her boots near the end of the bed and her eyebrows furrowed together; she didn’t remember taking them off at all. Her clothes were still covered in mud as well as clumps of her hair that were stuck together. Her face didn’t hurt as much as she thought it would be and was wiped clean of any dirt that should have been there.

A sudden worry filled through Arya’s mind as she wondered how long she had been asleep for. An hour? An entire day? She was heavy with drowsiness and her mind couldn’t get seem to wake up fast enough; heart full of worry and panic Arya forgot the agony in her body as she forced herself to her bare feet, biting down on her tongue to ignore the pain the shot through her as her bare feet began to make their way across the rotting wooden floor. The air was too warm for Arya to breathe or to handle as she forgot her shoes that lay by the lumpy, moth eaten mattress. If she had missed an entire day of duties Arya would surely be beaten to within an inch of her life.

Arya gripped the brass handle of the door and threw it open, darkness invading her eyesight as she went to rush forward, hoping to get back to her own quarters.

If only she had seen the body that lay on the ground.

Arya was too late to react as her foot caught in something warm and large that sent her falling forward through the air, a rather unladylike like squeak of surprise passing her lips. Arya hands flung themselves out in order to catch her fall. Her hair fell away as the strange lump at her feet stirred; Arya hit the ground with a loud  _thump_  and let a gasp wrangle its way through her mouth. She was bent at an awkward angle: her feet were up in the air as the upper half of her body lay on the ground, all but groaning in agony as Arya propped herself up on her elbows with eyes squinting through the darkness to see what it was exactly that had caused her to so ungracefully fall over flat on her face. Turning her body so that her legs were thrown over the strange mass, blue eyes met Arya’s: full of confusion, panic and drowsiness.

“Gendry?!”

The older boy sat up, blinking the tiredness away from his eyes as he propped himself up properly, Arya’s legs resting in his lap. A silhouette in the darkness and from the faint glow from the candle in the room behind him, Arya could see that his hair was a total mess, inky black hair sticking up in all directions from how he had been sleeping. Though  _why_ he had been sleeping there was the more important question for Arya as she continued to stare at Gendry, bewildered at him, dazed and confused at what had just transpired. It was obvious to her then that this was his room and it had been his bed she had been sleeping it. But, once again, why it had been in his room and his  _bed_ that she was sleeping in was a mystery to Arya as she watched the older boy reach a hand up to the back of his head, letting out a grunt of displeasure from being so rudely and suddenly woken. There was a light cast over one side of his face, highlighting his cheek bone and the line of his jaw as Arya’s eyes quickly looked to and from the exposed skin of his neck and collar bone. She averted her gaze promptly before Gendry could notice.

“What are you  _doing?_ ” Arya questioned as she made no move to take her legs that were draped over Gendry’s away. It was a situation that Arya knew Sansa would practically gasp in horror at: her younger sister acting too familiar with a base born bastard boy who was older than her. Arya all but wanted to smile as she pictured her sister’s horrified expression. Arya probably would have kissed Gendry only to send her sister into shock and have her collapse like the gentle lady she was.

The thought of doing so turn Arya’s cheeks red as she quickly pushed  _that_ thought away fast enough. Arya couldn’t go around  _thinking_  such  _stupid_ things! She reminisced when she and Bran would scrunch their face up in disgust at the sight of their Father and Mother kissing with Rickon running around their parents, tugging at his mother’s skirts to get her attention. Sansa would always blush while Robb simply laughed at both Arya and Bran’s reactions. That was a better time, now only for Arya to think of fondly when the now was too difficult to bear.

“Well, I was sleeping before m’lady decided to wake me,” Gendry grumbled, voice thick with sleep and annoyance from being woken up so suddenly. Arya pursed her lips as her face reddened in embarrassment. Still, Gendry did not tell her to move nor did he attempt to stand up himself.  A wave of warmth from the forge below caused Arya’s heart to skip and she wished nothing more than to have a cold bath to scrub herself clean in and rid herself of all dirt and grime that had grown beneath her nails and in her hair.

“That’s not what I meant!” Arya huffed as her eyes glared at him. He was within arm’s length of Arya and yet it felt as if this was the most intimate and close they had been. It made her uncomfortable and unsure of what to do or say; if Sansa were in her place she would know.  _If Sansa were here she would have been cruel and mean to Gendry. I would never be mean to him simply just because he isn’t some stupid highborn._

Gendry did not bother to reply to Arya as he lay back on the floor, throwing an arm over his eyes as he took a deep breath, chest expanding upwards. Arya herself felt tired and was half tempted to join him in sleeping but certainly not here, not on the bloody  _ground_.

“I meant,” Arya stressed through her teeth as she fought a yawn that was building up in the back of her throat. “What are you doing out here, on the ground?”

“Because  _you_ were in my bed,” Gendry remarked with a half teasing half amused smile on his face as he tiled his head down enough so that he could peer at Arya. It was unfair that he was able to see her face, to see her red cheeks and annoyed expression, from the golden light from within the room while she was not able to see his in the darkness that seemed to swallow them up. It was silent save for their breathing and the gentle beat of Arya’s heat that rang in her ears.

“But  _why_ was I in your bed?” Arya continued, gritting her teeth as her eyes continued to grow heavier and heavier. All Arya wanted to do was go back to sleep and never have to wake up. But she couldn’t; she wasn’t allowed that luxury here in Harrenhal. She couldn’t even remember a time where she had been allowed to sleep in. All those memories were clouded and forgotten, thrown away, discarded by Arya as she had no use for them. Mulling over the past did no good unless it could help the present.

“I couldn’t bloody well carry you to the other side of Harrenhal, now could I?” Gendry snapped before sighing, covering his mouth as a yawn clawed itself out of his mouth. Arya frowned at his words as she let out a huff to blow a strand of hair from her vision.

“You didn’t have to carry me anywhere,” Arya gritted.  _He’s so annoying sometimes,_ Arya spat inwardly as she fought the heaviness of sleep that was creeping up on her. She was stubborn and did not want to have to thank him for helping her because it meant that she had been weak, that she had needed his help.

“And then what? Left m’lady in the mud to raped?” Gendry was irritated at her now, she could sense it in his voice as it was cold and frigid but also full of heat, like when he would dunk a hot sword into cold water. Whenever Gendry was displeased with Arya, he would mock her with  _m’lady_ unaware how much it reminded her of how her Septa would scold her, saying that Arya should sleep with dogs if she continued to act like one. It frightened her then, when she had been all scrapes and knobbly kneed like a young deer, and even now her Septa frightened her.  _I wonder if she is still alive and with Sansa after Father was murdered._

Arya knew rape was a bad thing, was something horrible to happen to women and young maidens alike; what it was exactly was an anonymity to Arya even though her Septa and her mother said it was something men used to defile young girls. Arya thought of Chiswyck and that night, where he had made those jerking movements with his hips and as the girl screamed and cried. The recollection sent Arya’s tummy twisting and turning, the taste of bile becoming all too prominent in her mouth.

All Arya had been told was that a woman should only lie with one man and one man only; what lying entailed was what Arya did not know. It was something special between a man and a woman, they had told her, and a young girl should only ever lie with a man for the first time on her wedding night.

_Why is a woman’s worth decided by what’s between her legs?_

“No!” Arya finally spat out. “I just… I…”  _By the New and the Old Gods, what is wrong with me?_  Arya did not know what to say; should she chastise him for letting her sleep in his bed, something that would had sent her mother reeling or should she mutter out a ‘thank you’ for his help? If it had not been for Gendry she would have surely been beaten to death. Arya licked her lips again, ignoring the salty taste of blood and sweat as she dropped her eyes.

Gendry’s eyes studied her, eyes shining through the dark as his body shifted from beneath the light weight of her legs that remained on his lap. He had yet to tell her to move and Arya had yet to want to move her legs. There was that stupid fluttering again; it was in her stomach and caused her had to tighten a little while her eyes refused to meet Gendry’s stare. Maybe it was the tiredness and the hunger finally making Arya delirious or the lack of water.  _Yes,_ Arya decided firmly,  _that’s the only reason._

“I was worried that you might get sick after him beatin’ you,” Gendry spoke, his tone soft as the leaves that would whisper to one another in the godswood, like home. She was homesick for a home she no longer knew; a home where her body was loved and her soul free.  Arya trained her gaze on Gendry, trying to make him out from all the darkness that surrounded them. Arya was still curious as to why he had been sleeping out here on the ground in front of the door. Even now, the ground made Arya restless and uncomfortable and she yearned for a proper bed, for proper clothes. She was hungry, thirsty and tired; broken and beat down by everything around her all Arya wanted to do was just  _sleep_ ; to just not be awake for a little while and be lost in the swift and soft embrace of sleep. Arya wondered if Gendry felt as tired as she did.  _Of course he is,_ Arya scoffed to herself. Arya manage to squint through the darkness at Gendry; he was wearing a thin, dirty cotton tunic that was sticking to his sweaty skin with a pair of equally dirty breeches. Gendry grew up around the heat of a forge his entire life but Arya didn’t know how he could stand it; she was half tempted to strip herself as naked as her Name Day and run out into the cold rain.

“I would have been fine,” Arya murmured as she ignored the pain of her injuries. They ached terribly and they would continue to do so for the next few days until they faded into nothing but dull numbness. “I wouldn’t have died from a few hits.” A few was used loosely. She could still felt every hit, every kick sending jolts of complete agony through her thin, small brail body.  _Fear cuts deeper than swords._

“’ _A few hits_ ’?” Gendry spat with fury buried deep in his voice. “They  _beat_  you, Arya! They would have beaten you to death! I thought – ”

Gendry paused, stopping himself from speaking as if he held some deep secret in the back of his mind that was screaming at him to be let forward. Arya trained her eyes on him, or at least she thought she did within the darkness, and desperately wanted to tell him that she could protect herself, that she didn’t need his help to fight back. Arya was a wolf, not some innocent little bird like her sister who needed handsome men to appear on horseback, gallant and true as their hearts, to save her. Arya then thought of her aunt Lyanna, who had been taken and whisked away as if in a dream only to realise that life wasn’t a song and had been raped,  _dishonoured, defiled_  they had muttered, by Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. Arya wasn’t weak, wasn’t stupid, and could fend for herself, could fight for herself. If she had a sword, Arya would have killed them all. But she didn’t have a sword; it was taken from her.

But Arya bit her tongue, not wanting to irritate Gendry even further or start an argument with him at so late an hour with both of them being tired. Instead Arya took her legs back from where they had been draped across Gendry’s lap, slipping them beneath her and rubbed her sweaty palms against the mud coated material of her breeches. Arya was too tired to start a fight with Gendry, especially after he had helped her – even though she hadn’t asked for it.

Arya chewed on her bottom lip as she dropped her eyes down to the sight of her hands, all dirty with her nails longer than she would have liked. She certainly felt like a low born girl and not at all like Arya Stark.  _A wolf without her pack._ Gendry and Hot Pie could be her pack; they could be her new family.

“Thank you,” Arya whispered with a soft gentle voice that was rough all the same and hoarse; her bottom lip hurt as she chewed on it, ignoring the taste of blood as it washed over her tongue. Arya could imagine how shocked and smug Gendry would have looked and she turned away, waiting for Gendry’s snarky remark back at her, almost hoping that he would so Arya could get rid of this odd feeling in her tummy that made her uneasy and uncomfortable which she was not used to. But Gendry stayed silent, stayed unmoving as Arya’s heart beat thrice in her chest, the seconds dripping away.

Arya didn’t know what to say or do as Gendry still did not speak; she could feel his eyes on her, as if he too wasn’t sure of what was happening in the moment. Arya felt like she was naked; it was worse than being physically naked because then all she had to do was cover herself but no, this was different: she felt as if every thought, every feeling within Arya was bare for Gendry to analyse and pick apart with his eyes, that he was truly seeing Arya for who she was: a young, insecure, highborn lady on the run from the people who murdered her father. That Arya was no wolf at all, that she was her worst nightmare: a vulnerable girl. Arya did not like this feeling at all. She wanted to run away from this place, run away with Gendry, and with Hot Pie, to Winterfell and never have to look back.

“’S’alright,” Gendry said, voice heavy and thick which startled Arya from her thoughts. Arya chewed her lip as she cast her eyes downward, ignoring the trickle of sweat that ran from her jaw down her exposed neck. Her hair felt heavy on her head as she desperately wanted nothing more than to tie it from her face or to cut it even shorter. Arya did not miss having long hair one bit; it had always been hassle to keep clean and keep neat. “We should… we should get some sleep.”

He was right, of course, and it had been at that time he finished speaking that Arya could not hold the yawn back anymore. Her hand went to her mouth covering it as she felt the tender skin on her lip split again. Her face ached at the action but Arya ignored the pain and instead nodded dumbly at Gendry, getting to her feet and knuckling the sleep from her eyes to no avail. Gendry continued to stay on the ground, moving his feet from the way so she would not have to step over him. Arya stepped inside the room, bare feet silent against the rotting wood of the floor, before she turned back to Gendry, eyebrows furrowing in confusion as she realised he still sat there, head resting against the door frame.

“You’re sleeping out there?” Arya question confused at him. This was his bedroom and it wasn’t as if they had slept next to each other before. What difference was there to sleep next to each other outside and sleeping side by side in a bed? Arya used to share a bed with Sansa and she had oft fallen asleep by Bran’s side so she was no stranger to it.

Gendry turned to her, eyes wide as they met her, and Arya thought his cheeks had turned a steady pink. But that was stupid because Gendry doesn’t blush.  _He’s a stupid boy who likes to hit things with his hammer; of course he doesn’t blush._ Blushing was what stupid girls like Sansa and Jeyne did when they saw a stupid handsome boy to giggle over. It was the flickering candle that gave the illusion and nothing else. But he still seemed shocked at her question, as if it was obvious to why he had been sleeping there.  _Obvious to everyone but me._ Still, Arya stood there with a questioning look at Gendry as he dropped his eyes to the floor.

“O’ course, where else would I sleep?” Gendry muttered. Arya rolled her eyes at his stupidity.

“In your bed,” Arya pointed out with a snort as she crossed her arms over her chest.

“Not when you are in it,” Gendry retorted as he struggled to his feet, brushed the dirt off from his breeches and running a hand through his hair, causing the strands to stick up in all different directions with a comical effect. He gleamed with sweat with his tunic sticking to him and Arya could see the outline of his chest through the thin material. She forced herself not to turn red in the face as her eyes trained themselves onto Gendry’s face. He looked older in this light, looked like a man with his beard growing thick on his cheeks and his jaw. His hair was longer, just like hers was getting longer too. She would need to cut it if she wanted to travel the roads as a boy again. But with her growing breasts and her hips widening, her feminine body was slowly betraying her.

“We’ve slept together before,” Arya pointed, watching as Gendry turned redder at the phrasing of her words but didn’t correct her. They stood with a space of two feet between them, the air thick with heart from the forge below and a part of Arya yearned for her cold quarters with her thin blanket and equally uncomfortable mattress.

“That was different,” Gendry mumbled, refusing to look at her. His eyelashes were thick and long, reminding Arya of a raven’s feather. “We were outside back then and Hot Pie had been there too.”

Arya fought an eye roll again as she pursed her lips. What was the difference sleeping together alone in a room and sleeping surrounded by thirty other men who would rape her if they had the chance? Arya almost wanted to shudder at the thought. Gendry was being stupid, as usual, and she wanted to sigh in exasperation at his stubbornness.

“It’s not going to be any different,” Arya exhaled at Gendry. “I’ve shared a bed with my sister and my brother before; it’s not like this is going to be any different.”

Arya was tired and didn’t want to spend her time arguing with Gendry.  _Stupid, bull headed boy,_ Arya grumbled as the need to yawn resurfaced again. Sharing a bed with Gendry wasn’t going to be any more different than sharing one with Sansa and with Bran; of course they weren’t siblings but they had been through all Seven hells together and survived. Arya turned on her heel and made her way to the bed on the ground; she honestly could not wait to just close her eyes and fall asleep. She hoped to dream of her father and of her mother and all her siblings, even Sansa, when sleep would claim her; Arya had not done so for the past few nights since exhaustion had been too much.

Arya crawled into the bed, slipping her feet beneath the blanket that lay crumpled at the bottom and placed her head on the thin pillow her hands curling up to her chest, clasped together in mock prayer with her eyes squeezed shut.  _Joffrey, Cersei, Illyn Payne, the Hound, the Mountain, Polliver, the Tickler, Raff the Sweetling, Meryn Trant; Joffrey, the Hound, Polliver, Cersei, the Mountain, Meryn Trant, Raff the Sweetling, Illyn Payne, the Tickler._ Arya like to mix the names up every night, to make sure they were branded in her mind, branded into her thoughts. Sometimes she imagined how they died, other times she remembered what they had done to earn her wrath.

It was silent for a few heartbeats as Arya continued to list the names off her list, sometimes in order and other times not. Her mouth moved silently as she said the names, echoing in her thoughts. Then she heard the sound of feet on the floor, coming towards her. Arya did not open her eyes as she tried to focus on her list.  _Raff the Sweetling, Polliver, the Hound –_ the bed dipped from where Gendry lowered his weight, not an arm’s length away from her;  _Cersei, the Mountain, Meryn Trant, the Tickler_ – she could hear him unlacing his shoes and knocking them off as he slowly and cautiously began to lie back onto the bed; Arya feel the warmth of his body.  _Joffrey, Cersei, the Hound, Meryn Trant –_  the bed was small but not small enough; Arya could feel his back lightly brushing against her own but she made sure not to move her weight in case she would be touching him. Arya squeezed her eyes so tight she could see white spots fluttering behind her eyelids, dancing like Sansa used to dance. Arya listened as Gendry let out a breath of air, blowing out the candle and leaving them both in complete darkness.

The silence almost seemed deafening; Arya took long, silent breaths, trying to force herself to fall asleep all the while the names in her thoughts carried on, never ending. Arya recalled how long ago her mother would make Sansa and she pray every morning and night to Seven, to the Mother and the Maiden, to the Father and the Warrior, to the Crone and the Smith. Arya would sometimes pray to the Stranger at night. But her father’s gods were the ones Arya truly believed in with their crying face upon the white bark, red leaves rustling in the wind and so quiet, so gentle.

Their eyes no longer gazed down South, no longer sending their whispers upon the wind for her to hear. Arya let out a sigh through her nose, wiggling in her position slightly as the names on her mind slowly began to fade away. At first Arya thought it was sleep coming to claim her like it did every night but her thoughts had drifted far from the subject of death and murder. She thought of Jon then, wondering if he knew about Father’s death by the hand of the king and his lapdogs. Arya wondered if someone had sent him a raven – would Robb take time out his war to send a letter home, to Bran and Rickon and to Jon at the Wall to inform of their Father’s unlikely end? Bran had woken from his deep sleep some time ago so he must be acting as Lord of Winterfell; a boy of ten and one as the Lord made Arya begin to boil with jealousy. If she had remained at home she wouldn’t have been made acting Lord of Winterfell and would have been forced to continue on with her studies and her stitching.

Bran was young and fresh faced but his life had been taken from him; Rickon was only a young boy who still clutched at his mother’s skirts and would demand attention. Poor Rickon, a young child caught in the terror of war with neither his mother nor his father at his side. But he had Maester Luwin and Old Nan to keep him safe, to keep what was really happening away from him. And he had Shaggydog too, just like Bran had his own direwolf.

Arya tried to picture her brothers then, with their fiery red hair and their Tully blue eyes, looking nothing like the Starks they were. They had no hint of their father in their features. But it was difficult to wonder what they looked like; Arya couldn’t remember the exact shade of red their hair had been or the shape of their eyes. Robb wouldn’t be clean shaven anymore but he would have a beard. Arya couldn’t remember what colour his facial hair had been or the quirk of his lips as they pulled into a smile. Was Sansa’s chin that small or pointy? Arya couldn’t even remember what Jon Snow looked like.

A flash of red hair and a pretty smile was all Arya could picture of Lady Catelyn Stark and nothing more; she couldn’t recall her voice or her laugh and not even her smile. And her father…

A lost face in a sea of faces, not exactly like it should be and wrong; the wrong shape of his nose and his brow, his hair too long or too short. He liked to smile but not so much and his grey eyes were not as dark as the walls of Winterfell. Arya almost wept for the fact she could not remember her family, not truly, only distorted images her mind clung to.

Her hands unclasped and one found their way to beneath the itchy material of the pillow that Arya laid her cheek on as her teeth gnawed at her bottom lip. Gendry’s breathing seemed to be the only sound Arya could hear.

“Gendry?” her voice was a whisper though Arya knew not why for they were alone in the room and there was no one there to spy or beat them for talking. Arya almost wanted to hit herself for speaking but she couldn’t help it; there was an inner childishness within her that almost cried for being forced to grow up so much in such the short space of time. Arya remembered when she and Bran would lie beneath the blankets, laughing and talking about how they would run off together to the Quiet Isle or maybe run off north beyond the Wall to declare each other the King and Queen of the Free folk. But that was stupid because the Free folk had no Kings or Queens and everyone was equal there.

Gendry gave a slight, tired hum at her question indicating that he was awake and listening for her to carry on speaking. Arya shifted again as she mulled the question over in her mind over and over again. Slowly but surely, Arya began to turn around so that she would face Gendry, turning onto her back and then moving to her side as she placed her good cheek against the cool plain of the pillow. Through the darkness, Arya could see the outline of the side of Gendry’s face as he lay on his back. She could mark out the outline of his nose, his mouth and his brow and chin. Arya marked them in her memory so that she would not forget them like she forgot her family’s.

“Do… do you remember what your mother looked like?” Arya knew she was treading dangerous territory with her question, hoping that he wouldn’t get angry at her for her curiosity. Maybe she shouldn’t be so worried about forgetting the faces of her parents and siblings; it could happen to anyone at any time. Gendry was silent for a moment, as if deciding if he really wanted to answer her question. Arya chewed her lip and was going to apologise for being so nosy when he spoke.

“She… she was pretty,” Gendry spoke, voice low and lost in the land of memories. Arya wondered if he thought of his mother often before he went to sleep as if he, too, was worried that her face would disappear into mist. “She had big brown eyes and she had yellow hair that she wore in curls and braids. She always wore a ribbon around her neck. She had a pretty voice… she would sing me songs she learned from in the tavern or ones she grew up on. I remember… I remember that whene’er she was angry at me she would… she’d say that if my father was there he’d beat me. Never did remember much about when I was a kid.”

It was the most Arya had ever heard Gendry speak and she listened carefully, soaking up every word he said as he reminisced about his mother, the only family he had ever known.  _I could be his family,_ Arya thought, half asleep as her eyelids began to droop. No, she wouldn’t fall asleep, not when Gendry was talking to her about something and someone who had been so near and dear to his heart.

“What was her name?” Arya probed, voice lighter and softer than she had intended. Arya continued to let her eyes drink in Gendry’s face before she saw and felt him shift on the mattress, so that he was facing her, eyes locking onto Arya’s. She could barely see the blueness that was within his eyes but she could picture it perfectly.

“Flara,” Gendry whispered, his breath drifting over Arya’s face. They were close, now, closer than ever before with their knees touching and Arya could feel the warmth of his body even more so. If they had been outside in the cold she would have stuck herself to Gendry to rid herself of the ice that burned her body. “Her name was Flara. They called her Flara the Flower in the tavern.”

It was a pretty name, Arya thought. She blinked the drowsiness from her eyes as she tried to picture what Flara looked like from what Gendry had told her. Arya’s stomach ached and twisted, causing her to suck in a sharp, simple breath; the hunger she had grown used to over the past few months still caused her pain but it lessened each time. The pain of thirst was gradually fading away to nothing more than a mere nuisance to Arya.

“Why’d you ask?” inquired Gendry, his voice tender and quiet. Arya felt the blood rush to below the surface of her cheeks and was very grateful that it was dark so that he could not see the embarrassment the young stark girl felt. Arya shifted and pulled her knees up closer to her chest, wrapping one arm around them and using the other cradle her head.  _He’ll laugh at me,_  Arya thought sullenly. She continued to hesitate, chewing on her lip.

“I… sometimes… I can’t remember what my father looks like or… or my mother or my brothers and sister,” Arya admitted self-consciously as she gulped. The truth felt awkward and raw to Arya, she didn’t like it being out in the open for another one to know. Gendry would surely laugh at her now and call her silly. Because that was all she was now: a stupid, silly girl and not a wolf at all.  _Fear cuts deeper than swords._

But Gendry didn’t laugh at her silliness or call her stupid; in fact, he didn’t say anything for a while. At first Arya had thought he had lulled himself to sleep with the memories of his mother; Arya hoped that had been the case so that she needn’t embarrass herself any further by acting like a homesick baby.  _But I am homesick; I miss Jon and Bran and Rickon and Robb. I even miss Sansa._ She missed the smell of fresh baked bread and the sound of Jon laughing with Robb and Theon. She missed chasing frogs with Bran and Rickon; she missed when she and Sansa would throw snowballs at each other, laughing until they were not able to breathe properly. She missed lying in her own bed and riding on the back of her favourite horse; she missed secretly practising sword play with Bran in the godswood. Everything that was in Arya cried out for a home, for Winterfell.

“What do you remember?”

His question stalled Arya as she trained her eyes on him; it seemed like there was nothing else outside this room, that it was just the two of them with words gushing, spilling out like blood from a wound, to one another. Arya brushed a clump of hair from her eyes to rest behind her ears as she wondered if he was making fun of her or mocking her in some way. But he wasn’t; there was a genuine air of curiosity in Gendry’s voice as he spoke. Taking a deep breath, Arya wondered if learning to trust Gendry would be the best course of action if they were to survive together.

“Red,” Arya whispered her voice full of emotion as she closed her eyes. “My mother had red hair; not dark red or something too light. She smelled of flowers and she had blue eyes. She’s a Tully and her father – my grandfather, that is – is Lord of Riverrun. They say my sister looks exactly like she did when she was younger. Her name is Sansa and they all say that’s she’s the most perfect lady there is.”

Distaste and envy was slipping its way into Arya as she spoke about her perfect older sister. It seemed that to anyone but Arya, Sansa could never do any wrong and that she was the perfect child and all Arya was just something gone wrong, something for them to fix with needles and good manners. Arya curled her lip in between her teeth as she remembered how Sansa and Jeyne Poole would bully her, calling her Arya Horseface and making horse noises towards her behind Septa Mordane’s back.

“Everyone says how perfect she is and how beautiful she is,” Arya went on, pursing her lips at the memory. Arya was never considered pretty or even told that she was pretty by anyone but Jon and her father. “If you would have seen her, you would have never even looked at me.”

“That isn’t true!” Gendry quickly interjected her, as if in disbelief at Arya words. Arya blinked at him and his sudden burst as she blinked. “All them lords an’ ladies all look the same all the way from down here. I hate them just as much as they hate me. But you've never been so terrible towards me so. And you are – you don’t act like them fancy folks at all.”

When he finished speaking Arya thought she would set the sheets on fire from how red her face was at Gendry’s words. She should have taken offence to the fact he hated highborns because  _she_ was a highborn and there was nothing she could so about it so it wasn’t her fault. But Arya remembered how when she had been living down in Flea Bottom, all dirty and eating pigeons and how the knights and Kingsguard sparing disgusted glances at her, not knowing that she was Arya Stark. And she thought of how she didn’t act like a highborn lady, because if she had she wouldn’t even be in this mess: on the run, dressed as a boy and far away from her family, surrounded by strange men.

Still, Arya didn’t know what to say in reply to Gendry; it had been said as a compliment but Arya wasn’t too sure about it. Instead a slight smile ghosted around the corner of her lips.

“You would have liked my brother Bran,” Arya said with her voice back to a soft whisper. “He was always getting into trouble with my mother because he loved to climb the rooftops and he always brought his direwolf with him.

“A direwolf? What’s that?” Gendry asked, taking the hint that Arya really wished to move past the previous subject.

“They’re like wolves but they grow much larger than normal wolves,” Arya grinned as she fondly remembered her own wolf Nymeria who she had last seen that fateful day which felt like years and years ago when she and Jory had been forced to chase the she wolf off with sticks and stones. Arya could remember how her heart felt like it was being torn apart as the wolf finally relented and ran off into the trees and bushes, never to be seen by Arya again.  _I wish I could tell her how sorry I was, that I wished she was here with me now._ “I had one, once. Her name is Nymeria. I thought we were going to stay together forever until that stupid king hurt my friend. I hit him with a stick and Nymeria bit him on the arm. I was afraid that he would hurt her so I had to chase her off with Jory – he was my father’s guard captain.”

“You  _attacked_  the king?” Gendry asked, full of shock and what Arya that was a begrudging respect for what she did. Arya gave a small smile towards Gendry as she remembered that day fondly and how she threw his stupid sword in the river. Joffrey couldn’t even swing a sword properly so he had no need of it.

“He wasn’t the king back then,” Arya defended herself, a small laugh escaping her. Arya couldn’t remember the last time she laughed. “He deserved it, he did. If I had the chance I would have bit him myself!”

Gendry laughed at that then, as if it was the funniest thing he had ever heard her say. Arya shook her head then, and freed the hand around her knees to reach over and pinch Gendry’s upper arm. Gendry laughed more at her then and Arya let out an amused sigh then. She didn’t know what was so funny or how she amused him so but it was nice, nice to not be so serious all the time and to remember that she was only a child of ten and three. Gendry wasn’t a child though, he was a man of seven and ten but sometimes she forgot that; Arya forgot how Gendry was the age of Robb – Robb who was not a boy but a Lord.  _No, not a Lord, but a King. The King in the North._

“Why are you laughing?!” Arya huffed in annoyance as she reached up to playfully slap the side of his face that was turned towards her. His beard scratched at Arya’s palm, leaving it feeling itchy. It had grown thick and long, like a dark shadow beneath his jaw and on his cheeks.

“No reason other than knowing you would have bit him – maybe even torn his entire arm off,” Gendry chuckled as he stretched a hand out so he could pinch her cheek, a soft playful thing that made the smile stretch out across her face before she reached up to slap the back of his to push it away. It reminded Arya of when Jon would tease her, ruffling her hair and calling her ‘little sister.’

“Of course I would have!” Arya grinned as she slipped her clasped hands beneath her cheek. “My father used to say I had the wolf’s blood within me like my aunt Lyanna!”

“You certainly act like one,” Gendry retorted. Arya wanted to flick the tip of his nose then at the remark but all she did was scoff instead. Arya had always been wild, always had been playing in the mud and always would rip her dresses with her hair a mess and twigs in the dark brown strands. In her heart, in that one tiny piece that continued to stay after everything she went through, she would always be that knobbly need girl who collected scabs and scrapes as easily as other girls collected dolls.  _I will always be the daughter of Ned Stark and Catelyn Stark,_ her heart whispered.

“Oh, shut up,” hissed Arya playfully as her eyes started to become heavier and a yawn made its way through. Arya placed a small hound over her mouth as her eyes squeezed shut, watering slightly. It felt as if her entire body was begging Arya to be allowed to finally fall asleep; she would only have maybe less than four hours to be up and awake ready for another day in Harrenhal and to be worked. The one thing Arya liked about her position was how the room was always warmer than the other places, so the fear of biting her tongue off with her chattering teeth was not a fear that resided in Arya’s mind.

“You should get some sleep,” Arya heard Gendry grumble as he shifted weight again making the bed dip down. He rolled onto his back, placing his hands over is stomach and let out a deep breath that Arya thought he must have been holding. Slowly and carefully, Arya began to nudge herself forward, bringing herself closer to Gendry; she dropped her head slightly, curling herself tighter and tighter into a small ball before she let her forehead rest on the top of Gendry’s shoulder. The action seemed to both startle him and make the boy freeze but he did not say anything against it.

It was comfortable then, it was nice and Arya felt safe for once. She let her eyes drop, closing as her eyelashes tickled the tops of her cheeks. She hoped that her bruises and other injuries would be fading by the end of the week so she would not have to parade them around.  _I hope no one asks questions._

“Good night, Arya,” Gendry mumbled. The vibration of his voice was gentle and soothing for Arya as she gave a hum, signalling that she had heard him.

“Night, Gendry,” Arya whispered back to him as another yawn threatened to appear again.

Arya did not dream that night; not of her family or of her father’s death. She did not dream that she was a wolf chasing down her prey. She did not dream of Winterfell or of her sweet brother Jon or of any of her siblings. Neither Nymeria, Eddard Stark nor the butcher boy Mycah haunted her dreams that night, reassuring her it was not her fault; she slept dreamlessly by Gendry.

And, for once in her life, that was all Arya wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look I'm not gonna lie to you, most of this chapter was written at 3 a.m while i was full of junk food and fizzy drinks and waiting for the GoT episode on Monday morning, okay. I don't know half the crap I put in there and I will probably proof read it another time but for now this will have to do. 
> 
> A pretty long chapter of nothing but these two; my friends always said I was the best person ever to bullshit through shit. It's how I got the highest score in my english Junior Cert exam last year. 
> 
> I have been wondering if I should put Arya's wolf dreams in here because, while non existent in the show, I feel has a very important impact in the books.


	9. There Is But One God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amidst the war ravaging the land of Westeros, a lone Stark must find her way home, to her true family.
> 
> And yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I do not own any of the characters, places or story lines (unless stated otherwise) mentioned in the work; they all belong to their owner: G.R.R Martin  
> \- Mostly original dialogue.  
> \- A work of fiction previously known as "The Bull and the Wolf."  
> \- comments are very much appreciated!  
> \- for any more information, check out my profile!

**_Chapter_ ** **_Nine._ **

Finding Jaqen had been easy for Arya who began to know the paths of Harrenhal like the back of her hand. Silent, she was, as her feet ghosted through the broken halls and shadow like rooms, a phantom herself. The bruises had begun to lessen on Arya’s face with the swelling on her lips had reduced and it didn’t hurt so much to breathe anymore but her ribs still ached.

Her hair was becoming more and more of a nuisance to handle as it the shortest layer of her dirty, greasy hair bushed the nape of her thin neck. She needed to cut it soon as Arya was starting to feel that she was going to rib out her hair strand by strand soon enough. Arya had managed to chew her nails down to stumps. Skin peeled back at the edges and her lips were cracked, splitting whenever she yawned. Her skin was dry and was stretched tautly over her face, sharpening her features. Arya could count her ribs if she were to pull the large tunic up.

 The rain was fat and splattered on Arya’s bruised face, the water shattering into a thousand, tiny diamonds that sparkled, clinging to the ends of her hair with all the strength they had. It rained a lot, Arya learned, it rained when there was sun, when there was grey clouds and it rained when there were no clouds in the sky at night. It snowed in Winterfell and she had been used to the cold, her skin a different coat beneath the wolf skins she used to wear, but now it seemed that her time in the warm King’s Landing had made that tough skin recede to leave her pink and flushed. Now it seemed that she was wearing a different skin as well as a face, one that had learned to become used to the rain that was spat down from the clouds above.

The baths were warm but empty; Arya had wished to dunk herself into the steaming water and scrub herself clean but the baths had only been for the soldiers. She could not help the envy that bubbled in her as her feet moved silently across the stone floor, like a ghost. The air was thick and stuffy making Arya squirm beneath her itchy clothes but nonetheless be grateful for the heat which had been absent from her life lately. Grey wisps curled off the surface of the water as Arya made her way through the bathhouse to find Jaqen, grey eyes twitching back and forth to spot the red and silver headed man. There were few men in the hot water of the baths and Arya wrinkled her nose at them; men like them had little time and need for bathing.

_Men like them have made the Riverlands bleed; it doesn’t matter how much they would bathe, they will never be rid of the blood on their hands._

Arya continued on her path in the bath house as she chewed her bottom, ignoring the pain that came forth before it dulled. Arya pulled the sleeve of her tunic over her hand and ran it along her nose, sniffling. She had been careful not to poke or prod her bruises lest she irritate them. Arya resisted the urge to fan herself with her hand as the wave of warmth rushed over her, breaking and crashing as she let out a silent huff; Arya fondly thought of when she would sometimes bathe with her siblings back home in the baths. How she would splash Sansa endlessly, giggling as she and Bran, along with Jon and Robb, with play games such as seeing who would be able to hold their breath the longest or wrestle with each other.

That had ended long ago when Robb and Jon grew old enough to know it was wrong to bathe with other girls, even if they were their sisters, and Arya had been told she was a lady now and shouldn’t be acting in such a way.

Even now, when it had been months since she had last seen any of her siblings and of her escape from King’s Landing, it hurt Arya’s heart to think of them. It was like that there was a dagger in her, twisting and deepening causing the wound to bleed any time she thought of better times or of her family, of her father; there were no tears left in Arya for her to cry over dead men.

Arya eyes focused on the red that stood out amongst the rest of the pale grey of the bath house. He had his back to her but she could see the muscles rolling beneath his skin as he gentle rubbed away the dirt on his arm, running a cloth over the length. His hair almost shone from being clean. It reminded Arya of her lady mother’s hair but hers had been soft and not as bloody as Jaqen’s. When Arya had been younger, when she shared a bed with her sister, her mother would sometimes insist on brushing Sansa’s hair, letting the red glitter like fire in the low candle light. Arya would watch as her beautiful mother and her beautiful sister smiled and talked as their beauty shined brighter than the dull flame of the candle.

 _Mother had never asked to brush my hair,_ Arya recalled sadly as she thought of how she would be filled with sudden sadness and sudden envy towards her sister who held the love of everyone and left none for Arya. Sometimes it made Arya weep that she could never be the person everyone wanted her to be; she could never be a great beauty or a great lady like her mother and sister.  _I will always be Arya Horseface._ Arya shook her head then, brushing the thoughts away; worrying over old and scarred hurts would only break the skin and make them bleed again.

She watched Jaqen for a moment, pursing her lips as she waited him to turn around and spy her standing there. But he hadn’t. He remained oblivious to her presence as Arya quickly let her eyes dart around to pick out any heads but there was no one around this far in the bath house. Turning back, Arya watched Jaqen as he relaxed before she moved silently forward.

She had not seen much of the older man since after she had given him her first name, that day when they had met eyes and he had smiled slightly then, telling Arya that she had only two names left. Two names and one wasted on a man who was of no use to her dead. She should have picked Joffrey or Cersei but she had foolishly picked Chiswyck. And here she was yet again whispering another useless name that belonged to a man that was worth piss. Arya thought of naming Tywin Lannister but the memory of Weese’s fist hitting her was all it took to make the hate rise in her like fire in a dragon, licking her bones and setting them aflame.

Arya had not told Gendry how many names Jaqen had given her or how she had already used up two;  _he would think me a stupid girl and he would have berated me._ None of that it mattered as the older boy had seemed begrudgingly please in her choice of naming Weese as her next victim. Not that Gendry would admit in liking the fact Arya had made herself a powerful friend in a killer. Then again all Gendry liked was hitting things with his hammer and scowling.  _He looks better when he smiles,_ Arya thought as she bit her lip.

Arya drew closer and closer to Jaqen who had yet to turn around;  _some assassin,_  Arya scoffed as a wicked smile almost tugged itself across her lips. How was he to survive if even she could sneak up from behind him? Her feet moved silently like wind rushing over the surface of water until she was two feet from the man.

“A girl moves like a ghost,” he spoke, sounding more like a gentle hum, lyrical and pleasing to her ears above the usual shouts and abuse that had been inflicted on Arya of late. His words caused her eyebrows to furrow together as the smugness soon ebbed away; Jaqen turned his face so that the side of his head with the hair dyed red face her, the strands of hair swept behind his ears. Jaqen’s eyes watched her, eyes flickering up and down to drink in Arya as that odd smile appeared once again on his lips, hinting that he knew something she did not. Arya scowled at him as Jaqen turned back so that Arya could only see the back of his head again.

“But a girl is not silent like a ghost; a girl’s shoes give her away,” Jaqen informed her. Arya looked down at her feet, wriggling her toes from beneath the leather that was bound. Had he known she was there the entire time? Arya had thought that she was silent enough, so much that sometimes the other soldiers would get a shock when turning around only to spy her already there. She had been hit on the back of the head enough to know that men feared silent girls as well as ghosts.

“I’m not that loud,” Arya defended herself making her way across the space between the two of them, walking to his left so that she would be able to look at him in the eyes. His eyes were closed but that hinting smile was still at his lips and he turned his head slightly towards the sound of her voice before opening his eyes, an unknown glint buried within. There was a sickly sweet scent lingering in the hot, damp hair, clinging to Arya’s dirty clothing.

“The scuff of leather on stone is as loud as war horns to a man with open ears; a girl is clever and clever girls go barefoot,” Jaqen advised as he stretched his arms across the back of the bath he lay in, his fingers tapping a tune that was unknown to Arya. Sansa would have known it, had she been here; all of Arya’s life, she had been taught all sorts of songs: ones about love, ones about family and ones about the joy of life. But life was no joy when you had no money to afford it. Arya once again dropped her grey eyes down to her feet and wondered if she would be able to get shoes with thinner soles or thought of going barefoot all together, wondering if it would be a smart idea but quickly dismissed the thought; all Arya would get is a slap to the back of the head if she were to ask for a different pair of shoes.

“The other soldiers never hear me sneaking up behind them,” Arya confessed to Jaqen while she lifted her head up high, like what her mother or sister would do when talking to people as if to assert their power and to say that they were high born ladies so therefore they demanded respect. 

“A man is not like the other soldiers,” Jaqen smirked slightly with amusement clear in eyes. Arya bit her bottom lip, dropping her gaze her to the hot water that had thin wisps curling off the surface. Arya couldn’t help letting her hand drop to the water, the pads of her thin fingers skimming the surface, little droplets catching onto her sleeve; how she wished to shed her clothes and be able to scrub herself clean. But Arya managed to pull her hand away from the seductive warmth of the clean water and instead wrapped her arms around her chest.

“The other soldiers don’t like you,” Arya told Jaqen, looking up to lock his gaze. What she had informed him of was true but it seemed as if they were more so afraid of Jaqen rather than hating him; being a quiet mouse girl had made her privy to more than a few conversations passing between other men. Arya listened as they talked of how Jaqen was eerie and how he made them all feel uneasy. Suddenly, Jaqen’s smile seemed kinder.

“A man has few friends,” Jaqen answered as he dipped his head, as if to appear humble and sheepish. But Arya knew that was not true; Jaqen cared not about the people around him or the people who thought they ruled him. He was no one and no one needed friends for company. Arya had friends, though; she had Gendry and Hot Pie and before that there was Mycah and all the children she would play with back in Winterfell, running around while they played monsters and maidens in and around the yard. Back then she had her father and her family.  _Back then I had Jon Snow._

But now Arya had Gendry – and she had Hot Pie too. They were her pack now, they were her family. When she returned home to Winterfell she would plead with Robb to let them stay; Hot Pie was a baker so he could work in the kitchens and Gendry could make swords for Robb; Arya could teach Gendry how to wield a sword the way Syrio had once taught her and Ser Rodrik would teach him too. They could fight side by side, like in the songs. Arya wondered if Gendry would like that.

“I have another name,” Arya told him with her voice dropping to a mere whisper, eyes flickering to make sure that no one would be able to walk in on the two of them; her cheeks were flushed, the deep pink colour spilling upon her cheeks beneath her pale, dirtied skin. Jaqen raised an eyebrow towards Arya, the smile on his face turning darker and less kind.

“A girl has chosen?” Jaqen asked her, voice smooth and soft as the velvet, reminding Arya of the dresses her mother and Sansa used to wear when it was especially cold outside during the summer snow. She nearly drowned in the memories that continued to haunt and plague Arya’s every waking moment; not even her dreams seemed to be spared at night when the darkness was all there was to the world.

“His name is Weese,” Arya explained, the name rolling off her tongue and leaving a bad taste after it. His name left the taste of blood in her mouth. “He – he hurts people and he rapes girls. I’m to be his new cup bearer after Tywin – ”

Jaqen held up a hand to stop Arya from completing her sentence; her words floated lamely through the air as Arya closed her mouth, biting down on her bottom lip as her fingers curled their way into the material of her dirt riddled tunic. Jaqen’s smile lingered on his lips but it did not reach his eyes; he was the type of man to always smile but never mean it.  _A man who laughs in the face of death is one death does not wish to know._

“A man does not need a reason,” Jaqen replied coolly as he placed his hand back down, fingers resuming tapping that strange, unknown rhythm as before. Arya frowned at his words but dropped her eyes, no less, to stare at the ground as she shifted her weight on her feet. It was like when her mother would scold her for stealing cakes from the kitchens with Bran; it almost brought a smile to her face as she thought of how both she and her brother would have crumbs down the front of her chests and frosting around their mouths and would still deny any part of the thievery that took place. 

Arya heard Jaqen let out a long breath before she saw him move from the corner of her eye. The water splashed in the confinements of the bath; Arya watched as Jaqen stood up, naked as his Name Day and stepped out, taking the breeches he had discarded on the ground beside the bath in his hand. Arya briefly let her eyes watch him, taking in his lean body that was littered with white scars, before she turned her eyes up to the back of his head. Jaqen stepped out of the bath and slipped his feet into the holes of his breeches, bringing them up so that they hung off his hips.

Arya wondered how Sansa would have reacted then; maybe her sister would have turned as red as her hair or gasped daintily at the fact Jaqen had shown himself completely. Arya smiled briefly at that before she dropped her lips, face as serious and solemn as a Stark’s should be. Jaqen’s handsome face was made for smiling as he stood in front of her, bowing his head slightly.

“A man will complete the task at his leisure,” Jaqen replied to Arya. Her eyes widened slightly in disbelief at his words; Jaqen turned to dress himself in the rest of his clothes but Arya’s thin hand darted out to wrap itself around his arm making the older man turn to face her, eyebrows raised at the action.

“But he has to be killed soon!” Arya pleaded with Jaqen, her voice loud and clear; she no longer cared if someone had heard them right there and then. She knew that Tywin Lannister was leaving rather soon and should she be left in the care of Weese there was no doubt in Arya’s mind that he would take it upon himself to make her life terrible; he would beat her, rape her and maybe even kill her if he wanted and no one would care. The memory of his beating was so clear in Arya’s mind that it instilled a terror in her, one that she had not felt in a long time. Maybe it was because before any of this she had her father and her House name to protect her; after that she had Yoren and her appearance of a boy. Then she had Gendry and Jaqen. And now, people knew; they knew she was a girl and the men here were sick vile people who liked hurting little girls.

Arya knew that fighting back meant certain death; she couldn’t be fierce and wild Arry here, she had to be quiet mouse girl Nan who did what she was told and did it without protest. To these men, a girl who acted as strong as Arya was a girl that was supposed to be beaten into silence. She was not allowed to be a wolf, not allowed to have her Needle and she could not be Arya Stark. A different name, a different person.

Jaqen stared at her, not letting any emotion be clear on his handsome face. Slowly, Arya unlaced her fingers from around his arm and felt the shame creep up on her like it used to when her Septa would scold her for not being as good as Sansa in anything. She was all too familiar with its pain.

“A man will work in his own time,” Jaqen said once again but his voice was softer, kinder even due to her outburst, as if he saw the fear that was constant in Arya’s mind. He leant forward, dipping his head to press his lips against her forehead as his hair left tiny droplets on her cheeks, mimicking fake tears on her skin; his hair smelt strongly of flowers and other sickly, sweet things. Arya did not have the heart to plead him to kill Weese by nightfall nor did she have the heart to storm off.

All Arya could do was wait.

* * *

 

Tywin Lannister was to leave by the morning and Weese still continued to walk the earth, still breathed the same air as Arya and still sent her cruel smiles, proud of his handiwork that lingered on her face. She hated him, hated to the point she thought the hole in her heart would burn away from the flame that was being fanned every time she saw him.

She had been given new clothes, ones that actually fit her – to Arya’s dismay. The breeches were tight around her hips and the new tunic she had been given ghosted about her, giving away her femininity to the other men around Harrenhal. The worn leather jerkin, one with the lion sewed onto the breast, she had over the tunic showed off the bump in her chest, hinting to her growing breasts beneath. The woman who had given her the new clothes had gave a sharp and disapproving  _tsk_ at Arya before handing her a breast band that was to be used so she could keep her breasts in place beneath her clothes. Arya had almost turned red in embarrassment when the woman had asked her if she had flowered yet to which Arya replied a small, mumbled  _no_. The woman snuck her three, small clean squares and told Arya to place them in her undergarments when she first bled lest she wanted to be walking around in soiled pants.

Her hair was too short to pull up on the back of her head but long enough that it was a nuisance as it kept falling in front of her eyes; she had begged the woman to let her hair be cut, even going to the point that Arya told the other woman she had lice in her hair but the woman would have none of it; her hair had been scrubbed thoroughly and she felt raw and red, her face left pink and tingling. Arya had wanted to ask why she was being cleaned and given new clothes but bit her tongue to stop the words from tumbling past her lips; she would probably be slapped across the cheek for asking stupid questions. But Arya felt clean for the first time in what was months and months; her hands and feet were calloused and tough, her hair no longer was thick and strong and instead hung loose and limp from her head with her face darker, a tan having developed from all those months travelling and hiding beneath the sun.

Every day was the same: waking up before the sun rose, serve Lord Tywin until the sun set and then she would crawl into her pathetic excuse for a bed, clasping her hands in a prayer until she could taste blood in her mouth and her hands were stiff.  _Joffrey, Cersei, Illyn Payne, the Mountain, the Hound, Meryn Trant, Polliver, the Tickler, Raff the Sweetling._ Arya didn’t know who she was praying to; the New Gods, the Old Gods or the one true god of Death. Maybe all of them. Maybe none. A godless girl praying to them all, hoping they would take mercy on her and take her home, take her to her family.

 _Take me home,_  Arya whispered every night.

But where was home?

Home had been Jon Snow and her father; it had been Bran climbing the roof tops and trees with her, it had been Rickon laughing and squealing in delight as she danced with him. It had been her and Sansa throwing snowballs at each other and Robb scaring them by jumping out from the statues of the Kings of Winter and the dead Lords of Winterfell in the crypts. Home was Old Nan’s stories. Home was her mother and father. Home was Nymeria and Jon Snow’s hugs. Her home was Robb sneaking her desserts when she had been sent to bed without any. Home was Bran practising sword fighting with her in the godswood.

Arya didn’t have a home. Not anymore.

But home wasn’t a place, not to Arya. She could find a new one with Gendry and with Hot Pie. They were all that mattered to Arya right now. She could protect them both, if only she had her Needle with her. Then they wouldn’t be in this mess, wouldn’t be here in Harrenhal. Maybe Gendry could make a sword for her and Arya had been half tempted to ask him but Arya bit down on her lip, knowing that if she asked him he would refuse or if he consented to her request then there was a chance he would have been beaten, or worse: killed.

The thought left the taste of bile in Arya’s mouth as her tummy tightened, like knots were tying themselves in her guts.

Arya held two buckets in both of her hands, the water sploshing and spitting as she struggled with her steps, keeping them small and light as any water dancer could and making sure that she would not spill enough water out of the buckets. Arya kept herself light on the balls of her feet, eyes glued to the ground with her hair in front of her eyes; she tried to blink the strands away but it didn’t work. Arya let out a puff of air as she lifted her eyes, ignoring the strain in her arms and how hands became stiff and sore from lifting the heavy buckets. The ground was uneven and squelched beneath her feet as she struggled on.

Arya had finally made it to the stairs, placing one foot on the bottom before someone slammed into her, the water spilling from the books and her hands letting the bucket slide from her grip, crashing to the ground as a pool gathered around her. Arya managed to jump back in time before the water would ruin her new shoes and let out a curse inwardly. An unknown soldier pushed past her, a vile smile curling on his thin lips as his dull green eyes looked her up and down. Arya could only glare back up before the soldier moved on and Arya was left to have to pick up the buckets on her own; they were completely empty of their previous contents and Arya let out an annoyed sigh. She would have to return to the well and hurry back to her duties lest she wanted to be beaten.

Arya ignored the feel of the mud that stuck to the wood of the buckets and picked them up anyway, gritting her teeth as she pushed her anger that had been bubbling up back down her throat; Arya marched her way back down to the well again, trying to imagine how the soldier would have treated her if she had Needle with her.  _I would have hurt him; I would hurt everyone here,_ Arya grumbled to herself as she ignored the splinters digging their way through the pads of the tips of her fingers. The air was thick with smoke and sweat as Arya pushed her way quietly through the bodies of the men, trying not to shudder in revulsion.

_Rats dressed up in the skins of lions, that is all they are._

They were louder than usual and Arya found herself shrinking down into her clothes, hoping to remain undisturbed and invisible as she walked her way to the stone well; she hauled the two buckets up and began tying the rope to one of the handles, bringing the back of her hand across her nose as she sniffled. It was cold, just as it always was; like winter’s breath was clinging to the ruins of the place, sweeping away the smell of death and decay. Only bones remained but they were picked clean by crows. Arya’s grey eyes darted around her, forcing back down the yawn that was creeping up on her as she lowered the bucked down into the well. The sun was hidden beneath the thick grey blankets that hung in the sky like a bad omen that never seemed to go away from this place. Arya couldn’t remember the last time she had seen stars; maybe it had been the night of when the sky bled red. She had asked Gendry what he thought it meant; he had told her how was he supposed to know and Arya stayed silent, almost embarrassed and red as the comet, before Gendry claimed that he thought that  it looked like a newly made sword, the blade still red-hot and fresh from the coals of the forge.  _The Red Sword,_ he whispered to her. Arya thought of Ice then, her father’s sword that had been dyed red after Ser Illyn Payne took Ned Stark’s head so long ago.

Thinking of swords had made Arya wonder if she could fight her way out of Harrenhal with Gendry. Maybe Jaqen could help them if she asked him too, even get Hot Pie to join them if he wasn’t too craven. Hot Pie liked the kitchens, she knew, but Arya would beg with him. If not, she would leave him there and run off to the forest with Gendry, living like outlaws just like Wenda the White Fawn; they wouldn’t have to answer to anyone ever again and be able to live their lives together.

She wouldn’t even need to return to her family, wouldn’t need to make the journey to Riverrun, if Gendry would run away with her.

Arya pulled the bucket up, the rope burning her palms as she heaved before placing the bucket carefully beside her. A cough built up in the back of her throat but Arya smothered it; the thought of becoming sick or catching a fever worried Arya but no more than someone suspecting her to be ill and then taking drastic measures to make sure the illness would not spread.

But she felt weak, could feel it in her bones, and the worry only fanned the flames. Would she die here? Just like those people back in that village, back when she had been so helpless and weak? Arya shook her head and took a deep breath, ignoring the stench that followed. She had to be brave, had to be a wolf and not a quiet mouse girl.  _Fear cuts deeper than swords. Fear cuts deeper than swords._

Arya returned to her duty, collecting the water before carrying them back. Her footing was quicker this time and carefully placed as she kept her head up and glanced around her so no one would knock her over again. Arya didn’t think she’d be able to control herself should another person make fun of her or anger her. She needed to be Nan, needed to wear a different face and become a quiet nobody.

_Fear cuts deeper than swords._

* * *

Arya felt jittery in her skin, as if there was a wolf inside her waiting to be let free. Tywin Lannister was leaving and Arya watched him quietly as his cold calculating eyes washed over the filth of Harrenhal. Arya had almost hoped that he would take her with him but felt disgusted at the thought that stained her mind. She was a wolf and did not want the company of lions. Lord Tywin was dressed in red, the colour of blood, and his men dressed similarly to their lord. Arya’s breath fogged in the air, swirling up into the sky; her cheeks were pink and the cold bite of the air nipped gently at her exposed skin. Maybe if she closed her eyes and ignored the sounds of the other men, she could pretend that she was Arya Stark and she was back home with her family in Winterfell.

Arya was to be in the service of Weese and was to be his cup bearer much to her disgust. The Stark girl had seen no trace of Jaqen at all and it seemed he was keeping his promise in taking his time with killing Weese to Arya’s chagrin. Her fingers touched the place where Jaqen had kissed her and frowned; she could not understand the strange man who had promised to help her. Had he run away without her? Had he left her to be at the mercy of lions?

Arya could not stand the sight of Lord Tywin, could not stand his golden hair and his green eyes with his smooth cold voice. Arya turned away to walk off from the sight of the men gathering. She hated him so much it felt like her heart could burst in her chest beneath her ribs. Her feet moved on their own accord, moved towards the only place that held warmth that Arya knew.

It wasn’t raining for once, for which Arya was glad, but she still shivered slightly beneath her clothes, goose pimples rippling across the sensitive skin of her arms. Her hair was behind her ears, tickling at her neck, and the tip of her nose was red like it used to be when she and Bran would play out in the snow with Sansa. The memory almost made Arya smile had it not been for the ache in her heart.

Gendry was not within the forge but instead was outside in his jerkin and tunic with arms crossed over his chest, eyebrows furrowed as if he was thinking. Whenever Gendry was deep in thought it looked as if it hurt him something fierce, not that Arya would ever tell him that. His cheeks were red from the cold too and his hair lay like a messy mop on his, brushing against his eyes no matter how many times he brushed it out of his eyes. His beard was thick and had grown over the course of the few months Arya had known him. It made him look like a man.  _He is one,_ thought Arya, _he’s just like Robb. And Jon, too._ Arya missed Jon out of all of her siblings.

Gendry reminded Arya of Jon; how he always seemed to be angry at the world and how he always rather stuck to the dark shadows. How he frowned a lot but when he smiled it seemed like there was nothing sweeter in the world. At times in certain lights, Gendry’s hair almost looked brown, like Jon’s, and far away his eyes could be the same startling grey. Maybe it was because they were both bastards was what made Arya think of similarities between her brother and Gendry. Or maybe it was because she was desperate to remember that Jon Snow looked like. But Gendry was taller than Jon, stronger too. Sometimes when Gendry smiled it made her feel warmer inside but that was stupid. Gendry wasn’t Jon, he could never be Jon.

And, suddenly, that wasn’t such a terrible thing.

Gendry was watching Lord Tywin’s host, bright blue eyes narrowed as he shifted on his feet. There was a frown on his face as a crease deepened between his knitted eyebrows. Arya stood beside him, not being able to see anything but the top of the Mountain’s head and only able to hear the horses neighing above the crowd that had gathered around to watch the host leave. It was like a breath of relief had swept through the people in Harrenhal with the news of the Mountain leaving with Tywin Lannister. Arya had not felt as they did and almost wished that she had escaped earlier in her time here.

“Good riddance,” Gendry mumbled to Arya but not turning his eyes towards her. “Life’ll be easier now that that bastard is gone.” Arya didn’t know who it was that Gendry was talking about – Lord Tywin or the Mountain. Frankly, she didn’t care. It was easy for Gendry to say since his master wasn’t so terrible; meanwhile Arya was stuck with Weese, who still lived to her dismay.

“I doubt it,” Arya replied. They were far away from anyone but still Arya stayed wary of everyone and everything. The only person she could trust at the moment was Gendry. “Ser Amory Lorch is now in charge and Vargo Hoat is still here.”

Vargo Hoat was a cruel and truly vile man. He led the Brave Companions who were, ironically, made up out of cravens and turn cloaks, the scum of the earth. The Bloody Mummers was what people murmured and hissed underneath their breath but never to Vargo’s face. He was a tall, ugly man who spoke with a lisp and slobbered when he spoke, often having to dap away the spit on his mouth after each sentence. He made Arya’s belly twist and turn, flipping over as she heard of all the horrible things he had done in his life.

“And I’m to be Weese’s new cup bearer,” Arya finished with a dreary voice. Soon after Lord Tywin left she would have to return to Weese for her duties and her skin crawled at the thought, as if there were actual bugs alive beneath. Gendry tightened his lips into a straight line at her words and gave a grunt in answer before finally looking at her.

“You alright after what he done?” Gendry questioned, scratching at his beard. Arya tentatively placed her fingers to her face without pain resulting from the action for once. Her swollen face had gone down and her ribs no longer ached when she took a breath. Her lip was healing and her cheek no longer burned. She was healing albeit slowly. Arya shrugged in response to Gendry, letting a sigh bleed past her lips.

“I’ll be fine,” she replied. “It’s not like it’s the worst thing to happen.” Bruises and cuts always healed but the emotional hurts never did. Some hurts never did. Gendry stared long and hard at Arya as she closed her mouth, as if the words sat uneasily with him. Arya felt the same way.

“Scum like him, they deserve to die,” Gendry commented a shadow over his face and his voice deep and rough. Suddenly, King Robert came to Arya’s mind as Gendry spoke. She hadn’t thought of the fat king in ages; he was her father’s most treasured friend, yes, but all Arya knew of his was that he was fat and loved food and wine more than his own wife. She was told that he had been a great warrior once; he had been the one to strike down Rhaegar Targaryen at the Battle of the Trident. They said he had been handsome once, too, but being king had made him fat and slow. He grew a beard, as thick and dark as Gendry’s, to hide the chins that hung from his neck.

Arya shook her head, scattering the thoughts of the fat king. His son sat on the Throne now, is stupid, pretty son that could never be the warrior that King Robert once was in his youth.

Arya agreed with Gendry; scum like Weese  _did_ deserve to die, they deserved to die horribly and slowly. She would have killed him, if she didn’t have Needle taken away from her by Polliver; she would had stuck him and made him bleed all over the floor. But Arya knew that he would be replaced by another disgusting person just like him and on and on it would go. The world never ran out of terrible people who did terrible things.

Arya thought that maybe if Lord Tywin were to die that terrible men like the Mountain and Weese would scatter to the win, divided and weak. Then they could be killed. Maybe she could have Joffrey killed or Cersei then, when everyone and everything was in chaos, she would be able to kill the rest of the people who had wronged her. She could run off with Gendry and Hot Pie, make her way to Robb and insist that she fight, insist that she could hold a sword better than most men. She could have escaped in all the confusion with Gendry and Hot Pie and she could have been back with her mother and with Robb long, long ago.

Arya’s heart stilled in her chest as she realised just how stupid she had been in her actions.  _You stupid stupid STUPID!_ Killing Lord Tywin would not have only helped her escape but it would have also helped Robb in his war against the Lannister family, for him to finally be recognised as a true King in the North by the people in the South. Arya wanted to hit herself for acting so rashly and like an idiot for giving Jaqen Weese’s name when it should have been Lord Tywin, the true enemy. She had been a stupid silly girl with her stupid silly actions. Lord Tywin was leaving Harrenhal to wage war on her brother and Arya had squandered her one and only chance to be rid of him once and for all.

She needed to find Jaqen and fast before Tywin would pass the gates of Harrenhal, Arya never to see him ever again. Her heart and mind raced as Arya ran past Gendry, trying to find Jaqen in his brilliant red armour. Her shoulder hit Gendry as she pushed past him, causing the boy to shout her name out. She couldn’t stop, couldn’t explain to him what was happening.  _What have I done?_ Arya screamed at herself. Her feet hit the ground, mud splattering against the ends of her breeches and her ankles.

Arya  _needed_ to find Jaqen, needed to tell him that she changed her mind and that Lord Tywin was the one who she wanted dead next. Arya could hear Gendry shouting her name behind her but Arya’s heart pounded in her ears; everyone looked the same in their red armour and Arya could not see any sign of Jaqen’s silver and blood red hair. Most of the men appeared to be in high spirits, drinking their piss tasting ale as they laughed to one another.  _How could I be so stupid?!_

Her eyes searched around her frantically, hoping to spy any sign of Jaqen, hoping to find him before Lord Tywin had the chance to leave Harrenhal. A hand clamped down on Arya’s shoulder and spun her around, stopping the young girl in her tracks. Gendry was looking at her as she just decided to light the entire place aflame with wildfire. What was he doing?! She needed to find Jaqen! Arya pulled herself free, turning her head this way and that hoping to spot the sight of Jaqen’s hair. He had to be around here somewhere, he had to be! She was had been so stupid!

Suddenly Arya’s foot fell out from underneath her and Arya fell through the air, flinging her hands out in front of her in order to lessen the impact of when she would hit the ground. The palms of her hands scraped against the ground, stinging with pain as little droplets of blood appeared, and skin peeling back off. Her knees and elbows cracked against the ground as Arya landed on her side, the feeling of the wet stone seeping into her clothes. She could taste blood in her mouth.

The sound of horse shoes hitting the ground in a stampede filled Arya’s ears as she lifted her head, blinking away the blurriness in her vision.  _I was too late._ Arya lifted a hand to her mouth, pulling it away to see that there were tiny scarlet rubies glistening on the pads of her fingers. For some stupid reason, Arya wanted to cry; over what, she didn’t know the reason but she did know that the tears were already building and it took everything to not let them spill over. She ruined her chance, ruined her brother’s chance at winning this war. She wanted to hit herself for being selfish; how could she have not thought about the fact with Lord Tywin gone all her enemies would scatter to wind, away from their castle walls and armies. Robb would have killed them all and she could have been there with him when he did so.

Someone was helping her to her feet but all Arya could think of was how she failed, how she failed Robb and her mother and her father. It was like everything had come crashing down, as if everything she had tucked away was spilling forward in endless waves. She could have ended the war, could be home in Winterfell with Rickon and Bran and Robb and her mother. They could have found a way to free Sansa. She could have found Nymeria and begged the direwolf to come home. She could have been with Gendry in the forge in Winterfell and with Hot Pie.

It was Gendry she saw, looking at her with worry and confusion.  _He’ll think that I’m just some stupid girl too._ His hands were on her shoulder – no, not on her shoulders any more. On either side of her face, eyes checking to see if she had hurt herself from her fall. His hands were warm and he was asking her something.  _Are you alright?_

_No; I failed._

Far behind her, when the Lord Tywin’s host had left, she heard someone screaming that Weese was being eaten alive by his dog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late, yes I know, and the chapter is very rushed as well. I have been in Dublin for the past three days and it's currently half 12 on a friday morning and i need to work tomorrow. Regular updates on Wednesday will continue.


	10. Growing Strong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amidst the war ravaging the land of Westeros, a lone Stark must find her way home, to her true family.
> 
> And yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I do not own any of the characters, places or story lines (unless stated otherwise) mentioned in the work; they all belong to their owner: G.R.R Martin  
> \- Mostly original dialogue.  
> \- A work of fiction previously known as "The Bull and the Wolf."  
> \- comments are very much appreciated!  
> \- for any more information, check out my profile!

**_Chapter_ ** **_Ten._ **

Arya knew she shouldn’t be out in the middle of the night, knew she shouldn’t be wandering around the empty halls of Harrenhal where someone might catch sight of her and beat her. It was dark all around her save for the golden warmth of fire that were dotted around the place every so often, the glow of the fire gentle and soothing. The moon waxed and waned in the sky above but there were no stars, not here; the world seemed different at night, cold and silent like the dark pool that lay in the godswood in Winterfell beneath the old Weirwood tree. She was drowning in it, her body thick and slow as if the very air around her was trying to pull her back, pull her to her room where she might have been safe.

Arya wrapped her arms around herself in hopes of gathering even a sliver of warmth as she ghosted her way through Harrenhal in the dark; she knew every crook and cranny by now and could navigate her way through the grand castle as she could with Winterfell. Arya unlaced an arm that was around her to run her fingers against the uneven, melted stone walls, the bumps and roughness tickling at the pads of her fingers. There was no one around her but that didn’t mean that the place was entirely asleep; in fact more people were on alert with Weese’s death having been convinced that someone had tricked the dog into attacking its master.  _He had the bitch since she was a pup_ , one man grumbled as the dog slurped the blood that poured from Weese causing Arya’s stomach to flip over.

Her shoes moved soundlessly as Arya stepped out from underneath the broken place, ignoring the squelch of mud beneath her steps. The wind caressed her cheeks and ruffled her hair, sending the strands trapped behind her ear curling in towards her face so that they were caught in between her eyelashes and the cracks in her lips. She closed her eyes, letting her hair dance and tickle her cheeks and neck, taking a deep breath of the cool and sharp air that was fresh and clean from the smell of death that always seemed to linger around Harrenhal.

She had the urge to lift her head and howl to the moon, to be a wolf just like Nymeria wherever she was, but Arya bit her tongue to stop herself, lest someone heard her and ask her what she was doing, howling to the moon like a lunatic.  _I am a wolf_ , Arya told herself stubbornly. Wolves didn’t concern themselves with the opinions of sheep. Arya opened her eyes then, adjusting to the sudden darkness of the night around her with the watery silver of the moon above barely lighting up her surroundings. But it was better at night; no one ever bothered her when the sun disappeared and all that was left were the lost souls of the dead and the whisper of wind against leaves. She could be a wolf freely here and didn’t have to be the stupid mouse girl Nan.  _I am Arya Stark of Winterfell,_ her heart whispered. She was the wolf in the night, the water dancer and she was a fighter, a soldier.

Arya spun around on the balls of her feet, trying to imagine Syrio’s voice as he told her that she must be quick and light on her feet just like a cat; it was hard doing it in the mud and in shoes but Arya forced herself to dash faster than ever before. A ghost she was here, quiet and dangerous just like Jaqen was. Her hair flew around her as Arya ducked and dipped, straining the muscles of her legs for the first time in what must be months.  _If only I had Needle._

A branch was all she had, thick and heavy while hidden in the mud. She gripped it fiercely between her fingers with the feel of splinters digging into the palm of her hand. But Arya didn’t care; Arya imagined it was Needle, light as a feather, as she swung it like Syrio taught her too.  _I’m a water dancer,_ Arya said to herself as she stood on the balls of her feet, closing her eyes again as she danced her way in and out, imagining that it was Joffrey that stood before her when she swung the end of the stick forward.

_Joffrey._

_Cersei._

_Illyn Payne._

_The Hound._

_The Mountain._

_Meryn Trant._

_Polliver._

_Raff the Sweetling._

_The Tickler._

Every enemy, each time dead as she imagined it over and over again. Sometimes Arya pictured cutting their stupid heads off, the way they cut off her father’s, other times she imagined stabbing them over and over again, their wounds weeping blood, until there was nothing left and Arya’s hands were red. It was a game, nothing like come – into – my – castle or monsters – and – maidens; Arya could always find new ways for them to die, to think of something horrible to do to them.  _Would Robb ever want me back knowing what I think and what I have done?_

Arya paused in her steps, noticing how she was breathing rather heavily and that her skin glistened as bright as the moon above; her hand dropped to her side like a dead limp fish as she swept her hair behind her ear again. Why would Robb ever want her back after knowing his little sister wasn’t so little anymore? Robb and her mother would take one look at her before refusing to take her back; she was never like Sansa and could never dance properly, could never sew or learn the songs as sweet as Sansa. All Arya did was shout the words and end up in trouble.  _They wouldn’t want me when they could have Sansa,_ Arya thought grimly, dropping her head and looking at her pathetic excuse for a sword. She wanted to scream and to hit something, to let out all her anger and hate. Tears prickled her eyes and Arya threw the stupid stick away, reaching up to stop the tears before they had the chance to spill over onto her cheeks.

Sansa had always been so perfect and pretty, even more so at the age of five and ten and Arya hated her for it.  _She wouldn’t survive,_ the voice within Arya hissed,  _she was just a stupid girl. I am a wolf. **I am a wolf.** I don’t need her. She can keep her stupid pretty prince; I have Gendry and he’s much braver than Joffrey._

Arya took a deep breath and lifted her head, blinking away the tears before letting out a shaky sigh. Eyes glanced around to see if anyone had appeared while she had been so lost in her thoughts but there was not another soul in sight. Arya was alone.

_I am always alone._

Arya knuckled her eyes to remove the need for sleep that was creeping up on her away; the young Stark girl could not remember the last time she had a proper night’s sleep. She was so very tired and it was becoming harder and harder every day to keep her eyes open and to stay alert lest she fall asleep on her feet. Arya wrapped her arms around herself yet again.  _Joffrey, Cersei, Illyn Payne, the Hound, the Mountain, Meryn Trant, Raff the Sweetling, Polliver, the Tickler; I’ll kill them, I’ll kill them all._

Arya wandered aimlessly, taking in how the place seemed almost peaceful and tame after the long and bloody history that was in the melted bricks of Harrenhal; sometimes she wondered if these walls could speak what would they say. Would they tell her of how they met their demise? How many a man came here as the new lord before leaving again? Tell her the secrets that had been soaked up? Arya shook her head and turned away; no use hearing the secrets of dead men. The sept was empty at night and Arya didn’t wish to sneak in and pray to the New Gods. Would they even hear her? She remembered how the last time she had been near a sept her father died on the steps, his blood running across the tiles. Arya curled her fingers inwards, the nails biting into her palm leaving blood red crescent moons behind as if she was the sky, freckles marked on her skin like stars and constellations.

The New Gods didn’t help her father, they didn’t save him. Why should she pray to the gods that let her father die?  _There is only one god_ , Syrio had told her.  _And his name is death. What do we say to the god of death?_

“Not today.”

She wouldn’t die, not here, not now. Arya turned away from the sept, turned her back to the New Gods and walked away from them. They were her mother’s gods, she had prayed to them so long ago but not anymore; she did not want them no more they wanted her.

The weirwood tree stood isolated from everything else, the white bark shimmering in the pale light of the moon. It was twisted, gnarled and thin, as if it was being denied the food and growth it needed. The red leaves stooped over the tree like crooked back old women, rustling and whispering to one another. Arya ran a hand over the smooth bark of the tree, the feel of it familiar and safe. The face was deformed, angry – at what, Arya did not know. It was alone, lost, a lone god amid non – believers who sneered at its ugly face. The red sap leaked from its eyes, the tears wet and sticky when Arya dipped the pad of her finger into it. Like blood, it was, as red as the leaves that hung from its thin branches. The grass around it was wet, green fingers reaching up the roots and strapping it into the earth. Empty eyes of the face stared at Arya as if wondering what she was doing. She stayed there, silent and thinking. These were her father’s gods, the  _Stark_ gods and Arya was a Stark. A thin, pale hand stretched out to caress the tree’s face, the touch gentle like a lover’s. They would have saved him, these old gods.

Arya fell to her knees, eyes gazing upwards to the god’s as she clasped her hands together, not closing her eyes. Her father prayed to these gods and never to the New Gods; he never took part when Arya and Sansa had been made to send a prayer to them by Septa Mordane when in King’s Landing; he had never liked to walk into the sept with the New Gods’ eyes upon him, watching him. Arya didn’t like it either. These were her gods; unspeaking, silent as their leaves as they stared at her, judging. Arya finally bowed her head as her knuckles turned a pale yellow from how tight she clasped her hands together.

“You could have saved him,” Arya whispered, her hair slipping from behind her ears and falling in front of her face. Her voice was watery and her bottom lip trembled but she would not cry. Not now. “But you didn’t. Bring me home, you old gods; help my brother. Save my family. I pray, please, help me. But you won’t. I don’t think you could if you wanted to.”

Arya looked back up at the face that remained as stoic and anger as ever; the god was unmoved by Arya’s words and she felt herself crumbling inside, eyes shining with tears that needed to spill forward after being locked away for so long. But Arya still would not cry. She was left looking up at the tree’s face like a fool, as if she actually expected it to respond to her pleas. A tiny, foolish part of her hoped that the gods would give her a reply, that they would send her a whisper to keep her strong. But it didn’t. And Arya bowed her head again, placing her hands against her forehead as she struggled to contain the emotions within her. She would have stayed there, would have prayed until the son rose and set again, until her knees and hands ached and all she could taste in her mouth was blood.

“The gods are not mocked, girl.”

The voice startled Arya, causing her to leap to her feet and a hand to wander for her sword. But Arya didn’t have a sword, not anymore. It was gone, taken from her. And she was just a stupid girl who had no sword and could not fight. Arya stared at Jaqen, the silver side of his hair as white as the weirwood tree’s bark with the red mimicking the bloody tears, each side hanging on either side of his face. He stood in his Lannister armour, as red as his hair, and his hands lay lazily on the pommel of his borrowed sword. On his lips rested a thin smile, stretching across playfully as his eyes stared at Arya. She glowered at him, letting her hands fall to her side but made sure to keep alert and ready to run should things go sour.

“What are you doing here?” Arya spat as she narrowed her eyes towards him. Jaqen walked silently forward, eyes moving to the weirwood tree and its crying face. “I tried finding you earlier but you weren’t anywhere.”

He stood a little away from her, moving his gaze to Arya as he shifted his weight to one leg. His eyes were odd and full of secrets that Arya wished to know. How he seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once; how he managed to kill Chiswyck and Weese without anyone knowing it was him. Arya wanted to ask Jaqen how it was he managed to kill Weese but knew he would not tell her; why should he? He probably only thought of her as a stupid, foolish girl who already wasted two names and would waste the third.

“A man comes to hear a name,” spoke Jaqen, his voice a soft whisper and gentle as the wind rustling the leaves and Arya’s hair. “One and two and then comes three. A man would have done.”

Arya glared at him and clenched her hands into fists beside her, doubt sinking into her mind as she looked to the heart tree that was planted into the earth beside her before turning back to Jaqen who was all too close to Arya for her liking, so close she was able to smell the soap that clung to his hair and skin, but Arya would not take a step back, not when it would make her look afraid.

“How did you know I was here?” Arya had been fairly certain no one had been following her and most of the guards posted around Harrenhal were near the gates and other entry points, where someone might escape or try to sneak into. They were alone and that made Arya feel uncertain.

“A man sees. A man hears. A man knows.”

“Knows what?” Arya questioned, feeling impatient and annoyed at the man already. “Why are you here, Jaqen? Is Jaqen H’ghar even your true name?”

There was an amused glint in his eyes as Arya spoke, causing the annoyance in her to be fanned ever further, the flame engulfing her body on the inside. He dipped his head in a mock bow towards Arya, as if he was teasing her. Arya didn’t like being teased; she remembered how Jeyne Poole would call her Arya Horseface and when Lommy sneered at her, spitting  _Lumpyhead_. It nearly made her cry back then.

“Some men have many names, some men have none. Nan. Arry.  _Arya_.” Jaqen’s voice dropped to a whisper as he brought his lips closer towards Arya, saying her name. It was as if it was the first time she had heard someone speak her name in so long and it was like someone had pushed her into a bath of ice cold water, causing panic to seize her in its grip and worry to ignite in her veins. She stepped away from Jaqen, her back pressed against the weirwood tree, one hand sticky with the bloody sap and the other clutching at her stomach beneath the leather jerkin. Her eyes were wide and all Arya could think of was how she could run away.

Only one person knew her real identity;  _Gendry._ No, he couldn’t have told on her. He couldn’t! He was her friend and she trusted him! The thought of Gendry betraying left Arya’s stomach tight and twisting with the taste of bile being left behind in her mouth.  _No, no, no; he couldn’t, he wouldn’t_. Gendry wouldn’t do that. Gendry was different, he was nice and he teased her, made her laugh and was her _friend._

“Gendry told you?” Her voice betrayed her, filled with hurt as it cracked when saying Gendry’s name. It couldn’t be true.  _He wouldn’t, he wouldn’t!_ Arya felt so stupid for wanting to cry at the thought that Gendry would do that, would toss her aside as if she was nothing. Arya felt like she was five all over again, alone and crying in her room over Jeyne Poole and Sansa calling her  _Arya Horseface_ all over again.

“A man knows,” Jaqen continued, his eyes taking in her loss of composure but not remarking on it. Arya almost wanted to weep with relief that Gendry hadn’t betrayed her, hadn’t thrown her aside like she was nothing. Her body all but sagged up against the weirwood tree as a small sigh fell past her lips. Her retreat left some distance between her and the strange man, allowing for Arya to breathe without feeling her stomach tie itself in knots. Arya watched as Jaqen bowed again, dipping his upper body but keeping his eyes on her, hair falling like water over the lip of a ceramic jug, voice soft and feathery. “My lady of Stark.”

Arya wanted to tell him she was no lady, that she had never been a lady. That was Sansa, not her. But Arya didn’t have the energy or the ability to form the words or raise her voice at him to say that he should not call her such things when they were surrounded by enemies.  _My enemies,_ Arya said.

It was dangerous to stay here; who else knew of her real identity other than Gendry and Jaqen? Who else would walk in and recognise the Stark eyes and face? Would she be sent to King’s Landing to be a hostage like Sansa was? Would she be locked away in a tower and beaten? No, she would not let that happen. Arya glanced around her before stepping closer to Jaqen, looking up at him with pleading eyes.  _I need to get away with Gendry and Hot Pie._

“I need you to help me leave,” Arya told him in a hushed tone. “We have to leave this place and I need to get home to Winterfell. We have to kill those guards – ”

“A girl forgets,” Jaqen said to her quietly, stepping closer to her and keeping his voice low but soft. He frightened her more than Weese ever could have for who knew what storm he was holding back. “Two lives she has had, three lives were owed. If a girl wants a man to die, she need only speak his name.  The gods are not mocked.”

Arya bit her lip at his words, wanting to yell at him that one guard wouldn’t be enough, that she needed all of them dead if she wanted to escape this hellish place with Gendry and Hot Pie.  _It won’t be enough,_ Arya thought glumly. Jaqen continued to stare down at her with that stupid smile on his handsome face.

“I never mock the gods,” Arya replied, her voice strong and cold. Like steel and silk.  “I can name anyone? And you  _will_ kill him?” A repeated question, but she needed to know, needed to make sure.

“A man has said,” Jaqen replied with another bow of his head, his hair falling around him like soft, silk curtains.  _He needs to promise._

“Swear it,” Arya pushed him, stepping aside from against the old, angry heart tree behind her so that its eyes were a witness to the hushed conversation that was happening. “Swear it by the gods.”

“By all the gods of sea and air and by him of fire,” Jaqen said in a gentle voice as he reached a hand out, as though to mimick Arya's action, but instead placed his atop of her small hand, skin burning hers, all the while his eyes never leaving Arya’s. “I swear by the seven new gods and the old, I swear it.”

 _He has sworn,_ Arya thought, looking to the heart tree whose leaves rustled even louder than before as if knowing that a promise had been made, a promise that could not be broken. It made her want to smile. Jaqen took his hand back and dipped slightly, so that he and Arya were eye to eye, his face closer to hers. He smelled of sweet things, not sickly but almost engulfing her making Arya feel like she was drowning in him.

“A girl speaks many names,” Jaqen murmured. “A girl has a list; which name does a girl wish to speak? Speak a name; is it  _Joffrey_?”

Arya could not stop the sly smile that tugged at her lips as she stared into Jaqen’s eyes, feeling smug and proud of herself. She should have said Joffrey, should have said Tywin Lannister or Cersei but she didn’t; Arya wanted them to herself, wanted to take their lives and know that it was her, that it was Arya Stark who killed them. Arya leant forward, bringing herself closer to Jaqen so that it almost looked as if they were about to kiss.

“ _Jaqen H’ghar._ ”

The smile fell from Jaqen’s face, like water dripping from a tap. He brought his face away to look at Arya, to see the smile she had on her lips and how she was serious. A dark shadow cast itself over his face and he stood up straight, glaring down at Arya with a distraught look but she did not care. The smile on her face grew wider.

“A girl jests.” He was angry, she could tell and his jaw was clenched, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. Arya wrapped her arms around her chest as she looked up at Jaqen.

“A girl doesn’t,” Arya spat, placing one bare hand on the weirwood tree beside her, Jaqen’s eyes following her move. “You  _swore._ The gods heard you.” Jaqen’s lips thinned at that, as if he realised the mistake he made in underestimating her.  _They always do._

“Yes, the gods did hear,” Jaqen said coolly, his hand tightening around the pommel of his sword, taking it slightly out of its scabbard so that the metal glistened and shimmered. Arya wondered if he was going to kill her then or if he was going to use it on himself. Then a sad smile appeared on his lips, but his eyes were too hard, like stone, reminding her of the carved figures of the gods in the sept. His hand reached out, lightly ghosting around her cheek as though he was trying to catch a tear while his fingers traced her jaw. A lover's touch, like when her father would cup Catelyn's cheek. “A girl will weep. A girl will lose her only friend.”

Arya hadn’t cried in a long time despite the amount of times she wished she could have. “You’re not my friend; a friend would help me.”

Jaqen seemed to consider her words, letting them sink in before he slipped the sword back into place, the steel scraping and dropping his hand from her cheek. “A girl will say another name if a friend will help?”

The smile was only barely contained by Arya as her heart began to beat in her chest.  _It worked._ “A girl might; if a friend did help.”

It was silent before Jaqen took his hand off the pommel of the sword and looked to the weirwood tree beside her. He placed his hand on it again, watching the face of the old god before turning towards her, the familiar smile on his face again. But it was tight and forced. “A girl will make a promise. A man needs to know.”

Arya let the smile drop from her face in seriousness as she moved her hand that was on the heart tree too, laying it to rest beside Jaqen’s as she stared into his eyes, keeping her voice still.  _Calm as still water._

“I swear to unname you, by the gods of sea and air and him of fire. I swear it by the seven new gods and the gods of old. I swear it.” A repeat of his words, to know she was serious and would keep her promise. She was no turn cloak or craven. She was Arya Stark of Winterfell and she would keep her word. Jaqen’s eyes still watched her, as if unpleased with the promise.

“A man does not believe a girl’s promise,” Jaqen said taking his hand off the tree as Arya did the same. Her eyebrows furrowed at his words and she was confused.

“I promised before the gods,” Arya stressed, becoming impatient and annoyed at the man. “What more do you want?” A promise could be so easily broken but one made before the gods and made in the name of the gods, all of them, was not something to take lightly, even Arya knew that.

Jaqen leant down so that they were once again eye to eye, almost equals; her hair was loose around her face and there was an urge to sweep it behind her ears but she pushed that need away, biting her lip as she tried to keep her composure at how close Jaqen’s face was. In the light of the moon, Arya could almost make out the small freckles on his cheeks.

“A man wishes for a kiss from the pretty girl,” he spoke, his breath fanning her face, the smell of sweet, intoxicating wine surrounding her. Arya blinked at Jaqen, taken aback at his words. A kiss? Why on earth would he want a kiss? She thought he was jesting and was going to laugh at her but he didn’t. Arya herself almost wanted to laugh.

No one ever wanted to kiss her or receive a kiss; she remembered how Theon Greyjoy used to beg Sansa for kisses when they were younger, only for her to turn as red as her hair and place a peck on Theon’s cheek. The only people that Arya had kissed were Jon Snow and her father. But that was different; Arya had seen her mother and father kiss before, how her mother would wrap her arms around her father’s neck and how her father would cup his lady wife’s cheeks. That almost made Arya blush as she quickly erased the image from her mind.

So what if she kissed Jaqen? It wasn’t as if she would have to tell anyone. And if she did, Arya would explain why she did it. Arya stared at Jaqen, narrowing her eyes before biting her lip, a heat growing across her cheeks, heart skipping in her chest. It wasn’t a big deal, kissing someone. Sansa used to talk of kissing all the pretty knights with Jeyne Poole and giggled over it, acting as if it was something to be excited about and nothing to dread. Arya gulped to lessen the dryness she suddenly felt in her mouth and throat.

“Alright,” she said her voice quieter and softer than she had ever heard it. Arya could feel her heart beating faster in her chest much to her dismay. It was just a kiss, nothing big. But Arya never kissed someone that wasn’t her family before.

Jaqen smelled nice, like the sweet flowers that would grow in Winterfell’s gardens. She hesitantly licked her lips and looked at Jaqen’s own lips; suddenly, Arya wondered what Gendry’s lips would feel like. How his beard would scratch her and where he would put his hands. She would have to stand on the balls of her feet to wrap her arms around his neck or maybe he would lift her up. She thought of her hands tangled in his hair, how warm he would be. Arya turned red at the intrusive thoughts that invaded her mind, swallowing thickly before she pressed her lips against Jaqen’s.

His lips were soft, pressed up against Arya’s in an entirely new feeling, and then she felt his hand come up to gently curve around the back of her neck so that she was held to him. His lips began to move and Arya, curious and desperate for freedom, tried to follow his lead, keeping her eyes closed so tightly that stars were bursting in her vision; his stubble scratched at her skin, leaving it feeling tingling. Arya didn’t know what to do or where to put her hands; she probably looked stupid standing there as she kissed him. Slowly, hesitant, Arya placed her shaking hands on Jaqen's shoulders, both to keep her standing upright and to push him away should anyone see them. Her own lips were chapped and were warm from the blood rushing up to beneath the frail, thin skin as she tried to force the thought of how, to her shock, _nice_ it felt to kiss someone. Arya hadn’t had such an intimate gesture ever since her father died and it made a warm feeling that was beginning in the depths of her tummy. Arya couldn’t stop the image of Gendry’s as it appeared in her mind, as if it could never leave. How he smiled, how he would make her laugh, how he was handsome, the sight of naked chest as he hit the steel, the dark trail of hair disappearing beneath the line of his breeches…

There was something pooling in her stomach, almost an ache, and it was foreign to Arya. Her heart was fluttering madly in her chest and her lips were beginning to feel sore from being pressed up against Jaqen's hungry mouth. Arya couldn't breathe, couldn't even think as that ache below her stomach grew, heart thumping wildly as she found it becoming harder to stand on her weakening knees. Arya wondered briefly if Gendry would have been softer with kissing, hands cupping her face and setting a gentle pace. Thinking of Gendry in such a way almost stilled her and she slowly took her lips away from Jaqen’s, lips feeling swollen and tingling as a reminder of what she had just done. Arya didn’t know how long the kiss lasted for, two seconds or two minutes. Arya was ashamed and embarrassed, because she had found herself almost enjoying the act, but mostly to be thinking of Gendry in such a way, in way like Sansa would.  _He’s just a stupid bull headed bastard boy,_ Arya growled as her heart fluttered in her chest. She couldn’t be thinking of him like that, she wasn’t Sansa. Gendry was her  _friend._

“A man will help,” Jaqen’s voice was low and whispered all the while he stared at her, dropping the hand that curved around the back of her neck. Arya’s face must have been entirely red by now. “A girl will gather her friends and leave before the sun rises.”

 _Yes,_ Arya thought, wanting to leave this place.  _We will never, ever have to come back._

* * *

Sneaking in the shadows was easy for Arya.  _Swift as a deer, quick as a snake._ Her heart was pounding in her chest as giddiness, something that had not been felt by Arya in a long time, burst in her chest, filling her veins and pumping her blood through her body. She needed to hurry, needed to be quick, if she wanted to leave this place. The thought of leaving this horror almost made Arya root herself to the ground in disbelief; where would she go? Riverrun was the closet place and it was held by her grandfather. He would help her, Arya knew he would;  _Family, Duty, Honour_  that was what all Tully’s had embedded in their minds and Arya’s mother was a Tully, making her one too. Maybe Robb or her mother was there. Arya couldn’t help but imagine what would happen should she finally reunite with her family? Would they cry in happiness or hug her? Would they stare in disgust at her appearance? Would they even want her?

Arya shook those thoughts away, making herself focus on first escaping Harrenhal before letting hope take root in her mind. Arya made her way through the empty, desolate courtyard, the cold hair running its fingers through her hair, caressing the strands as Arya’s grey eyes looked around for any sign that she might be caught by a guard. Far away, she could hear the drunken laughter of soldiers.

The forge was empty, the orange embers curling and crackling giving off the little warmth they had left wrapped up beneath the coals. Arya bit her lip as she made her way through the place on the balls of her feet, ears and eyes open. The master of the forge was not as terrible as the other men who were at Harrenhal, a drunk, yes, but if you got used to the stink he was not so terrible.

Arya’s eyes adjusted to the darkness around her, letting the tips of her fingers ghost against the wall, ignoring the pinpricks of splinters threatening to draw blood from beneath her skin. It was difficult to breathe in the forge, it was like being dipped in fire and left there. Already Arya was sweating with her hair sticking to her cheeks and her neck. Ignoring the urge to fan herself, Arya made her way to the room, the only one she had been inside of. The air was stuffy and wet, clinging to Arya’s skin like a second pair of clothes that she did not want. The door was wide open and it was pitch black within the room, save for a single slit in the wall that served as a window. The bed was placed right beneath it so that the person sleeping there would stay cool during the night.

Arya slunk forward, biting her lip as she drew herself forward. Gendry was asleep, the dirty woollen blanket caught around his legs as he lay on his back, one arm behind the thin, lumpy pillow to cradle his head and the other thrown over his naked chest. Arya briefly watched the rise and fall of his chest as she stood with one foot in the door and the other foot out. Arya knew she had to be quiet and careful when it coming to waking Gendry; he was naturally a light sleeper and any loud disturbance would startle him and, in turn, startle the master of the forge which could result in him calling assistance for soldiers. Then Arya would not be able to escape that horrible place and be stuck there until she died.

Arya gnawed on her bottom lip, sweeping her thin strands of hair behind her ear as she crept forward towards Gendry sleeping form, light on the balls of her feet; he seemed to be sound asleep as he kept still and unmoving save for the rise and fall of his chest. Arya took noticed of the hair matted on Gendry’s chest, feeling the slight burn of her cheeks as she chastised herself for thinking such things. Closer and closer, Arya bent down so that her knees rested on the edge of the mattress. Gendry’s face was turned away from her but Arya could see his eyes were closed, his nose twitching slightly. His lips were parted and his hair was plastered to his cheeks. Arya bit down on her bottom lip so hard the sour, metallic taste of blood invaded her mouth as if it was a permanent thing on her tongue.

Arya very carefully reached a single hand out, ready to place it over Gendry’s mouth so to wake him when he shifted his head, so that he was turned towards her, the hand on his stomach slipping to his side. His cheeks were dusted with a rose colour, soft pink petals blooming beneath his black beard and his cheeks. Arya quickly snatched her hand back as if she had been burned by him and held her breath. It was unbearably hot and stuffy in the room and not even the pathetic excuse for a window could cool her down with the wind’s cold fingers brushing over her glistening skin. Arya could not help but to stare for at Gendry’s sleeping face for a moment, almost feeling as if she was indulging herself for doing so. He looked younger, like his actual age, and there were no creases on his face. Eyelashes fluttering like moth wings, Arya brought her hand out again, cautious and mindful.

Her eyes watched for any sign that he might wake and yell at Arya, wanting to know what she was doing so late in his room. His eyes remained closed, lost in the darkness that had taken a hold on him, and all Arya could hear was his gentle breaths. Her fingers brushed against his temple, the canvas beneath her was warm and slick with sweat; the pads of her fingers grazed the hot skin, carefully brushing aside the strands of thick black hair so that they were away from him. Arya’s thumb hovered at the space between Gendry’s thick eyebrows, the spot where it usually creased when he was deep in thought or confused. She drifted down past his cheeks, like the wispy touch of a ghost, as the stubble prickled her fingers, rough and itching. She didn’t mind it though, not really; Arya remembered all the times when she would hug Robb and he would scratch his beard against her cheeks. It always made her laugh.

The thought of Robb made her lips tug up only by the slightest bit;  _I have to be strong,_ Arya whispered to herself, resting her fingers gently on Gendry’s warm cheek.  _I have to be strong, just like Robb._  Soon, she would be back with him and with her mother; she would be able to rest her head properly for once and she could train with Gendry like a proper water dancer. How her bones and empty heart ached to hold Needle in her hand. How she wished to see Jon, even it was to say goodbye. Arya missed Jon most of all.

Jon would be a man grown now, all dressed in black for the rest of his life. He would never be allowed to be by her side every day, to make her laugh, to kiss the scrapes on her knees when she had fallen over. It could have been just the two of them and Arya wouldn’t have cared at all; he was her family, her pack. He was her blood, her brother, the brother she cared about most of all.  _I wish I could see him; one last time._

The thought of him send such a pain of loneliness through Arya, so deep and agonising that she thought it might unravel her from the inside out, that she would end up becoming nothing more than just empty, broken bones and watered down regrets. There was a never ending chasm inside her heart, one that could not be filled no matter how much hate and anger she shovelled into it. It would stay there for the rest of her life, Arya figured.  How Arya wished she could weep and scream, to not have to be strong for one brief second.

But she had to be strong.  _Like Robb._

As Arya’s fingers ghosted the edge of Gendry’s jaw that was coated with black, coarse hair she let her hand wander to rest a hair’s breadth from touching his lips. Arya remembered wondering what they felt like, pressed up against her. Arya wondered if they were as soft as Jaqen’s or rougher, broken by the wind and lack of clean water. Arya once remembered how Sansa’s lips had always been a perfect shade of red, making it look as if she was wearing lip tint. But, no, it had just been Sansa in her natural beauty.

Arya was wasting time she realised, and let out a sigh through her nose. She would have to make sure that Gendry would not lash out believing he was being attacked by a person he did not know whose sole purpose was to slit his throat. Carefully, Arya slid to her the balls of her feet, hunched over as she made her position, quick and fluid like running water. She was holding her own weight as she held herself over Gendry, one leg on either side, positioning one leg over the arm that lay beside him and reaching one hand ready to grab hold of the arm resting beneath his pillow. It all happened in one quick motion.

Arya’s free hand slammed over Gendry’s mouth while the other wrapped itself around his bicep, pinning it beneath the pillow; her knee pressed down onto his other arm so that it was trapped beneath her while she dropped her weight on Gendry, instantly waking him up.

His eyes flew open, bright with alarm and fear as his body jerked to the sudden weight but his muscles were thick with sleep while adrenaline was coursing through Arya’s very veins, filling her with a new kind of strength. Her thighs were wrapped tight around Gendry’s hips to avoid him throwing her off which would result in probably alerting anyone who happened to be near or in the forge. His eyes flew to her, eyebrows furrowed together as he stared at her in disbelief. Arya could feel his lips part beneath her hand, breath hot on her palm. He shifted his weight beneath her and seemed to still, eyes growing as wide as the moon. Arya leant in close, strands of her hair falling over her shoulders so they tickled her cheeks.

“ _Please._ ” Arya pleaded, hoping that he understood her.

He shifted beneath her weight again, his leg digging into her inner thigh, cheeks turning an ever deeper red but Arya stayed where she was, tightening her grip on him. Gendry gave a quick nod, squeezing shut his eyes; Arya lessened her grip on the man beneath her but that was all it took before Gendry pushed her off of him and unceremoniously onto the ground, a dull ache shooting up her back from landing on her ass. Arya’s heart leapt as her eyes darted to the door, almost expecting someone to barge in to see what the racket was. But no one did.  _Thank the Gods._

Gendry bundle the blankets up around him as he refused to open his eyes, taking deep breaths.  _I must have really startled him,_ Arya thought as she stood to her feet, brushing off the dust on her breeches all the while staring down at Gendry, who finally looked up at her in disbelief and anger.

“What are you doing?!” Gendry hissed with his cheeks redder than she had ever seen them as he held the sheets to his chest as if he was some innocent maid, which Arya highly doubted. “What in seven hells do you want?!”

Arya frowned as she wiped her sweaty palms on the material of her breeches, twitching her nose. She had to be quick so that they would be able to go get Hot Pie.

“I need you to get dressed and get three swords,” Arya whispered, bringing herself back down to her knees, resting herself on the ground as she begged with him. Gendry’s eyes narrowed at her words, untrusting and suspicious.

“Wha’ are you talking about?” He grumbled, running his hand through the same mop of thick, black hair that Arya had been touching not moments before. But she shouldn’t be thinking of that; she  _couldn’t_ be thinking of that. She had to get Gendry and Hot Pie out of Harrenhal.

“We’re leaving,” Arya admitted, blurting the words out as her eyes once again turned to the door, hoping there was no spy pressing his ear up against it. Those words had made Gendry blink, unsure of how to react to her revelation. “You need to open the locks and get the swords.”

“You want to escape?” Gendry snorted as he bunched the blankets up in his fist. He rolled her eyes at her then, causing annoyance to spike within Arya. She wanted to hit him then. “They’d break one hand for opening the locks and cut the other one off for escaping.”

 _I won’t let that happen,_ Arya wanted to say to Gendry but bit her lip to stop the words from tumbling past her lips. What was one small girl to do against fully, grown and armed men? Arya didn’t know what else to do but place a hand on Gendry’s bare shoulder, the contact making the older boy look at her, gazing at her through his eyelashes.

“Not if you run away with me,” Arya whispered, tightening her grip on Gendry’s bare shoulder in a hope that he would realise she was being serious about the whole ordeal, that she was truly planning an escape. It would succeed, it  _had_ to succeed or everything that she had been through would have been all for naught. Gendry’s lips parted at her words, sucking in a sharp breath with his eyebrows raised.

“Where would we go?” Gendry asked, still unsure about leaving with her. Arya didn’t know why he was so wary of her plan. She had managed to get out of stickier situations than this before and would continue to do so. She was a wolf, she would fight.

“Riverrun,” Arya replied, sounding wistful and full of hope at the thought. She would be with Robb soon, with Bran and with Rickon. Maybe she could find Nymeria, beg for her forgiveness if the direwolf did not hate her after all that she had done. That direwolf had loved her even if no one else did, had loved her before all of this had ever happened, before when she was just Arya Stark. “My grandfather is the Lord there and my mother and brother are sure to be there; if not, my uncle will be there. They  _will_  help and protect the three of us.”

Maybe it was childish thinking but Arya couldn’t help but let it all be planned out in her mind; from leaving Harrenhal to arriving at Riverrun. They would see, would notice how she looked exactly like her late lord father and then her mother would see her. Maybe Lady Catelyn would cry and wrap her arms around her youngest daughter, tears being soaked up. Maybe Robb would be there too and would hold her, would lift her up like he used to do before he said she was getting too old for it. Or maybe they would turn their nose up at her for her appearance, at how she acted. Maybe they wouldn’t even want her.  _No,_ Arya thought.  _They must take me back._

“How are we even going to get out of Harrenhal?” Gendry grumbled, breaking Arya from her thoughts. Arya gnawed on her lip, wondering if she should tell him about Jaqen reluctantly deciding to help Arya and that he was probably waiting for them by the gates. She wondered if she should tell him about the kiss. No, Arya decided; she needn’t tell him. It wasn’t any of his business anyhow.

“Just… just trust me, okay?”

It was all she could say.

And Gendry looked at her, eyes watching, deciding before he nodded.

“ _Okay._ ”

* * *

 

Getting the horses had been easy.

Having the Lannister lion embroidered on her breast and being known for being Tywin Lannister’s own cup bearer had made people learn not to question her.  _Who am I to question what Lord Tywin does?_ Arya would usually fire back. When the stable boy had finished saddled the three horses and after throwing side glances at Arya, he finally asked what the horses were for. Arya shrugged and said that Lord Hoat had said not to ask questions. The name had made the boy squeak in fear, at the thought that Arya was his new cup bearer. She almost wanted to smile.

Gendry appeared not long after with a sullen and tired Hot Pie trailing behind him, a large bag of food slung over one shoulder as he used his free hand to knuckle the sleep from his eyes. Strapped to both Gendry’s and Hot Pie’s side were a pair of swords, rusty and looked to be in dire need of a whetstone. Gendry held another one in his other hand as his eyes darted around the seemingly empty place. He, too, held a bag but what was in it, Arya did not know. Food, maybe, or extra weapons.

She was hidden in the dark, far away from any prying eyes, with the reins of all three horses clutched tightly in her hands as she watched the two boys approach her. It was eerily quiet and it was unnerving; Arya wondered what would happen should she raise her head and let out a howl.

“Here,” Gendry murmured, thrusting the pommel of the dull sword in her direction. Arya took it without a word, trying to ignore how it felt too heavy in her hand; it was wrong, not fitting her small hand and the blade instantly dipped closer to the ground when it was in Arya’s hand. She slipped the thin end of the sword through her belt, letting it to rest flat against her outer thigh.

“Gendry say’s we’re gonna escape,” Hot Pie whispered, his fat little face full of fear. His eyes kept darting around, as if expecting a soldier to suddenly leap out and catch them.  _He’s afraid,_ Arya said to herself. By rights, she should have been scared too. But Arya wasn’t afraid, she was a wolf. She needed to be strong, like her father, like Robb. Like Jon, too. He had been the bravest of them all.

“How much food did you bring?” Arya asked, handing her companions the reins of their horses. Hot Pie got a blonde spotted one with a thin, cut mane whilst Gendry got a brown and black horse covered in patches. Arya’s own horse was completely grey, just like the fur of a direwolf.

“Dunno,” admitted Hot Pie as he stared at the horse, unsure and not knowing what to do. “I just got whatever I could. I got a lot of cheese and bread and some cakes, too.”

The bag did look like it would last them if they rationed it properly and did some hunting as well. Arya didn’t know how far it was to Riverrun or how long it would take on horseback, but she judged it couldn’t be more than three weeks, even less if they rode through the night. She tried to remember the map she had seen countless times in front of Tywin Lannister during his council meetings. It was of utmost importance that they would not stop to sleep for the first three days lest Vargo Hoat or someone just as terrible sent out scouts to find the people who stole three horses beneath their noses.

“Good work, Hot Pie,” Arya encourage, causing a smile to cross Hot Pie’s lips. It wasn’t a nice smile like Gendry’s but it made her return one all the same. Gendry stood silent and brooding, staring at his horse as if half expecting it to talk back to him. With an internal shrug, Arya quickly made her way to jump up the horse, placing her foot in the stirrup what had been adjusted to her leg length so that she wouldn’t fall off the horse. Riding was like second nature to Arya who could ride horses before she could walk. Arya adjusted the sword strapped to her thigh so that it would not irritate her before she took the reins in her hands just like she used to when she had been back in Winterfell.

Gendry and Hot Pie stood there, blinking.

“What are you doing?” Arya hissed, staring down at them. “Get up on the horse!”

“I ain’t never rode a horse before,” Hot Pie shot back, looking at his own saddle. Gendry glared at his own saddle.

“Just place your foot in the hook and pull yourself up,” Arya instructed the two of them, feeling more and more anxious the longer they spent there.

Gendry had managed to follow her easy instructions with ease whereas Hot Pie was… well, Hot Pie.

He struggled to pull himself up at first, the second attempt resulted him in dropping the bag of food. He picked that up and slung it over his shoulder before he managed to pull himself up again.

Only to realise he had put the wrong foot in the stirrup.

Arya would had laughed had it not been for the situation but bit her tongue as she fought the urge to yell at Hot Pie. She had to remember that she was a high born and had been taught to ride a horse since she could stand on her own two feet and that Gendry and Hot Pie never needed a horse because they would walk to get to their desired destination.

Finally, Hot Pie slung himself up, red in the face, and placed his other foot in the stirrup. Arya was in the lead and gave her horse a small kick, keeping the reins nice and tight. Gendry and Hot Pie followed her, the silence thick with tension. Arya couldn’t keep her eyes flashing around herself. They were drawing closer and closer to the gate and there were guards there, but they did not speak or protest. She could smell the blood laced in the air.

It was as if her heart was ready to jump out from beneath her ribs at any moment from how nervous she was as her teeth chewed on her bottom lip, wishing that it had been a piece of warm bread. The horse carried her silently and obediently as she drew herself closer and closer to the gate.

Arya looked back at her companions to see that they were nervous too; Hot Pie had his fear plastered on his face with his eyes darting around. Gendry held his reins so tightly that Arya could see his knuckles turned a pale yellow colour. Arya turned back to face forward and could feel her heart thumping in her ears as she was drawing near the exit to Harrenhal.

_Nearly there._

She was nearly there.

Nearly at Riverrun.

Nearly with Robb.

Nearly with mother.

Nearly with Bran and Rickon.

Nearly home.

A voice from her right brought her from her thoughts, snapping her back to reality. Arya pulled her horse to a stop as she saw a man, drunk no less, as he bent over and heaved his guts out onto the ground beneath him. Coughing and spluttering Arya turned away, looking back to Gendry and Hot Pie who had also seen the guard. He was near enough that he would defiantly see them and sound the alarm. But he was far away from anyone seeing him. His eyes looked up, managing to catch sight of the trio before he vomited again; he had seen them. Fear ran through Arya as she watched the soldier, knowing that should he manage to tell anyone of what he saw then she wouldn’t have until morning that they would be aware someone had manage to steal three horses and run.  Taking a deep breath, Arya swung her leg down and it hit the ground.

“Arya?!” Gendry whisper shouted, shock and fear creeping into his voice. Arya quickly threw her reins to Gendry who caught them, only barely. She hoped he knew what she meant.  _Leave him to me._ Jerking her head towards the exit, Hot Pie passed her a worried look before her urged Gendry on, making Arya turn towards the guard who was down vomiting.

Just as Gendry and Hot Pie were through the gate the guard looked up, eyes narrowed and wandering. He saw her, standing there with her stolen sword. Arya forced herself to move her feet, to move herself closer to him.  _I have to brave,_ Arya chanted to herself, a fake smile creeping up on her face. Arya thought then of Pretty Pia, the girl who had slept with many of Lord Tywin’s knights. How she swayed her hips, how she smiled and giggled.  _You look awfully lonely,_ Pia would say in her sultry voice. Arya wanted to cringe at the thought of trying to mimic Pia.

His eyes were looking her up and down and Arya remembered she had to smile. His eyes darted to behind her, almost as if he was trying to catch any sign of Gendry or Hot Pie.

“Wha’re you doin’?” he slurred, staring down at her. He had a dirk strapped to his belt and that made Arya’s smile widen as she fluttered her eyelashes, like what Sansa used to do when Joffrey would look her way or catch her looking at him. His eyes were narrowed and full of suspicion.

“I thought you looked lonely,” Arya replied, making her voice as clear and girly as she could. There was no way he would fall for this; she was stupid acting like this, trying to lure him away. Her hair was a mess and so were her clothes.

But his eyes looked down her, lingering on her budding breasts that were becoming more and more prominent each day.  _Think like Sansa,_ Arya chanted, reaching up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. She remembered how Pia would push her breasts out by arching her back; Arya mimicked the action as best as she could before stepping closer to the man. He had failed to notice the sword strapped to her belt. But the drink seemed to make him lazy as a smile that made Arya’s stomach turn appeared across his face.

“Oh, really?” he said, the drink melting his words. The smell of wine was vile. “May’e you could keep me company, eh?”  _Be brave like Robb._

Her hand made its way to his arm and he took that as an invitation to wrap it around her shoulders, using the other to wrap around her waist. He was stupid, Arya realised as the smell of wine became too hard to bear, ending up that Arya had to hold her breath. His hand was on her ass and he dipped his head to kiss her when Arya grabbed the hilt of his dagger, bringing it up and slashing it across his throat. It was like cutting butter, Arya thought, as the edge of the blade kissed the man’s neck, the blood pouring out onto Arya’s face, dribbling down her neck and onto her jerkin. The lion sewed there was crying blood, almost drowning.

Arya pushed the man away and he fell back. He placed a hand to his open throat, trying to call out but Arya drove the dagger into his throat again, her hands warm from being drenched in the red liquid. He was choking, dying. He tried to say something but blood drowned his words and the spray of red hit Arya’s face. There were red tears on her face like a weirwood tree. Finally Arya drove the knife into his heart, ending his flopping.

 _Men,_ Arya spat, not caring to wipe away the blood as she placed the dirk in her belt.  _They always believe two things: one, a woman is weak, and two, she is attracted to him._

It mattered no longer to Arya as she stole away into the night, catching back up with Gendry and Hot Pie who had been foolishly waiting for her outside the gates. Neither said anything of her being covered in blood and that she stank of it.

Together, they stole away into the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't really like this chapter; was really rushed towards the end but oh well.


	11. Protect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amidst the war ravaging the land of Westeros, a lone Stark must find her way home, to her true family.
> 
> And yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I do not own any of the characters, places or story lines (unless stated otherwise) mentioned in the work; they all belong to their owner: G.R.R Martin  
> \- Mostly original dialogue.  
> \- A work of fiction previously known as "The Bull and the Wolf."  
> \- comments are very much appreciated!  
> \- for any more information, check out my profile!

**_Chapter_ ** **_Eleven._ **

They had ridden through the night, the darkness of the night melting away as the sun began to rise; golden light was dripping onto the world beneath as the stars disappeared. Cold air bit at Arya’s skin and she wished that she had dressed in something heavier than her simple tunic and leather jerkin. Walking around with a Lannister lion sewn onto her clothes was as much as a death sentence Arya could ask for. But she didn’t care; she would worry about her attire when she, Gendry and Hot Pie were far, far away from Harrenhal, far from hell.

The horse beneath her huffed and puffed, snorting as two columns of grey mist shot out from its wet nose. The hoofs beat upon the earth, fast and hard as if the whips of its previous masters were cracking behind them. Gendry and Hot Pie could not ride as well or fast as Arya but still, they managed not to fall off. Hot Pie especially struggled with the horse but he kept his mouth shut, only complaining once or twice about the soreness of his backside. Her hair flew behind her, the wind running its fingers through the thin, straggly strands as her hands gripped the leather reins so fiercely she thought her skin might fall off.

Gendry was silent and had a look on his face as if he was deep in thought; he looked odd as he sat there unspeaking, Arya remarked, as he sat atop the horse, hands gripping the reins and feet in the stirrups. He looked older, like a soldier – or a knight, maybe. He was looked far taller than ever on the horse and Arya thought that if he had been in proper armour with a proper sword at his side, he would have looked terribly fierce, as if he was riding into battle like a true knight and not the knights nowadays who were more boys than men.

They dashed through the trees, the earth lifting up beneath the horses’ hooves as they ran, as Arya willed and whispered to her own horse:  _take me home._ Her hands reached out to knot itself in the thick, coarse hair of the horse’s mane, trying to imagine it was Nymeria’s fur that she was entangled in, that she was ten and two again back in Winterfell with Nymeria trotting at her heels, yipping like a pup with her tongue lolling out of the side of her mouth with the rows of razor sharp teeth on view.

Arya could scarcely see through the darkness as the horse galloped away from Harrenhal, as if it, too, were happy to be away from that dreadful place. Arya worried that perhaps she was too good a rider for Gendry and Hot Pie and that she was going too fast, resulting in the two of them to trail behind her. She looked behind her, squinting her eyes through the darkness to make out their shapes; they had managed to stay close to her but they bopped on the horses, unsure of how to ride properly. She would have to tell the two of them how to sit properly on the horse another time, now she needed to focus on what was ahead of her, what was waiting for her at Riverrun.

Arya scarcely felt the branches that snapped at her skin, teeth tearing at the skin of her cheeks and hands as she dashed through the forest, the only sound she was able to hear was the panting of the horse and her heart pounding in her chest. Swift and fast, she was, and it felt as if that she was flying through the air.  _Swift as a deer. Fear cuts deeper than swords._

Arya felt no fear; felt no fright, no sickening realisation of  _by the gods, I just killed a man._ The blood on her hands, soaked into the threads of her clothes as if they had been dipped in dye. Lannister red was the colour. Like glistening red jewels on her face; Rhaegar Targaryen dying at the Battle of the Trident, crying the shining rubies as Robert Baratheon made the strike of his war hammer into the Targaryen Prince’s chest in revenge for stealing his lady love and raping her. Arya thought of how maybe his silver blonde hair turned red, the thick liquid running through the tender locks and making it turn black. Had he been frightened, knowing that he would die and that he had failed? Lyanna had only been three years older than Arya when she died. It was always a debate of Robert being the gallant hero, trying to save his love from her kidnapper and rapist and that Rhaegar had loved Lyanna. No one ever thought of Lyanna. No one ever thought that she was just a girl then that loved neither man who had ruined her life and caused her death. Then again, women were oft not thought about by men, who saw them as trophies to be won. The woman is just as important.

Arya thought the night would never end, that it would stay forever dark and this was all some terrible nightmare from which there was no end; running, running, running. That’s all she would be able to do. That Hot Pie would fall behind lost to wolves or the mummers. That Gendry would leave her alone to be left to be eaten by the horrors of the night. Maybe it would be Nymeria that would come along to chew her up and spit her out. Maybe Jon would appear, hissing that she was not his sister  _because who could ever love a heartless killer?_ She wasn’t even Arya anymore; had she dreamt that girl? Had she dreamt the godswood, her precious Needle? Was she truly just no one?

Thoughts whispering doubt had nestled in her mind, like a spider in the corner of the room spinning his web. She was caught in the silky threads, ready to be eaten by her crippling self-doubt and uncertainty.

The horse was sweating beneath the saddle but did not falter its pace as light broke through the tops of the trees, the light spilling like an over flowing glass. Arya did not know how cold she had been until the warm glow hit her face, filling her with heat and causing a shiver to crawl up her spin and across her body. She did not take notice of how her clothes stuck her body, her skin feeling raw and fresh after the wind had scraped at the surface. Night had passed but the worst was yet to come.

“Can we stop?” Hot Pie grumbled behind as she started to slow his horse as they broke through the trees to a small clearing. It was a small dirt road that lay before them but Arya knew it could not be the King’s Road. It was too small, too hidden by the trees.

“No,” Arya replied, voice strong like steel. “And we should not stay on the road. They’ll find us.”

“There’s someone up ahead,” Gendry spoke, the closeness of his voice startling Arya who hadn’t heard him speak since the previous night. Her eyes flashed to Gendry, how he settled his horse beside her so close that their knees brushed but he was not looking at her but over her head. Arya turned her gaze in the direction Gendry was looking and found that, indeed, there was someone standing not too far away from them. She knew his face and the colour of his hair instantly.

“Wait here,” Arya ordered, turning back to Hot Pie and Gendry as she handed Gendry the reins of her horse so that it could not dash off and leave her to walk on foot. Carefully, Arya unhooked her foot from the stirrup and swung it down off the saddle, just like she done a thousand times previous before, and let it rest on the ground before placing the other foot beside it. Arya could feel all eyes on her but did not let it deter her as she stalked towards Jaqen, hands curled into fists at her side as the older man gazed at her, that smile on his lips.

“A man has returned to hear a certain name unsaid,” Jaqen said when she was close enough. Arya stopped in her tracks as she bit her lip, glancing behind her to see her friends watching the scene before them. Hot Pie looked confused, as if uncertain of what was being exchanged. Gendry looked angry. Arya turned back to Jaqen.

“I, Arya Stark, hereby unnamed you,” Arya answered, feeling deflated as she said the words. Part of her felt angry at herself for not naming Tywin Lannister or Cersei or Joffrey as her third name. But it didn’t matter now. They were alive and escaped Harrenhal. Arya knew the longer she lingered, the more chance there would be that they would be found and it danger was lurking closer and closer by the second.

“Where will you go? What will you do?” Arya questioned feeling saddened that they were parting. Arya had very few friends and seeing them leave her was enough to make her want to cry. Jaqen’s smiled turned kinder, friendlier at her question.

“A man will leave and continue his path,” he answered. “A man must disappear.”

“Can you teach me?” Arya blurted out the words just at the tip of her tongue. She blushed slightly, feeling foolish and childish but Jaqen’s smile only grew.

“If a girl wishes to train, a girl must come with me across the Narrow Sea.”

The offer was tempting for Arya. She wished she could run away and disappear, that the part of her that was Arya Stark would leave. Arya tried to picture it, tried to imagine what it would be like to just  _leave_ , to just realise she was so very tired and did not want to fight anymore. She could become a proper water dancer, could learn to fight like a true knight and help Robb. No one would miss her. No one would ever know where she went.

_I need to be brave; I need to be strong. Like Robb. Like Jon._

The thought of Robb made her want to cry; the last she had seen him was in Winterfell; he had been shaven and was smiling at her, telling her that she should behave. Her arms had wrapped around his neck and he had laughed then, saying how he would miss her _. I’ll miss you too_ , she laughed. And she did. Soon, though, soon she would see him. Be able to hug him again.  _I will tell him I love him and I have missed him. I will never, ever leave him again._

And Jon.

He had given her Needle, had ruffled her already messy hair and gave her a hug, too, but far away from the eyes of her mother. She wanted to cry then, wanted to beg him that they could run away together so that he wouldn’t have to join the Night’s Watch and that she couldn’t be married off to some fat Southern lord. He had smelt of soap as she buried her face into his neck, trying to remember everything about her brother.

And she couldn’t leave him then. She couldn’t leave him now.

_I couldn’t._

Arya bit her lips, glancing back to Hot Pie and Gendry again, who were staring silently at Jaqen and Arya. They were her pack now, her family. She couldn’t leave them now. Her eyes met Gendry’s dark eyes as he glared at the scene before him, his horse swaying beneath him as it moved from hoof to hoof. His jaw was clenched and he stared into Arya’s eyes, wondering and waiting to see what she would do. His eyes were dark beneath, revealing the effect of the sleepless nights had on him. Gendry’s hair was stuck to his forehead, the strands longer than ever before as they brushed his eyes; her heart knotted in her chest as her stomach tightened. She was becoming more and more aware of how  _handsome_ Gendry was as he sat there, the sun running its fingers through his ink black hair, how that even when he wasn’t smiling, it made  _Arya_ want to smile. How all the mean words that had been thrown at her by her sister, by Jeyne Poole, by Lommy Greenhands seemed to wash out of her hair when he spoke to her, softly and kindly for what seemed like the first time in her life. Her heart stuttered in her chest like a sentence caught on her tongue, unsure of what to say or what it was, spilling and gushing out incoherent things, but it knew there was something there. It was stupid and made her uncertain about everything but one thing: Gendry was the only person she cared most about at that moment, the only person she could trust.  _I can’t leave Gendry, not now._ Arya turned back to Jaqen having decided.

“I can’t leave,” Arya croaked as she tore her eyes from Gendry’s and back to Jaqen.

A sad smile appeared on Jaqen’s lips as he bowed his head at her words. “Then it is here that we must part,” Jaqen sighed, voice fluttering on the wind like a bird’s wings. Jaqen reached out then and took her hand in his; for a brief, ludicrous moment Arya thought he meant to kiss it like what other lords would do to her mother but instead Jaqen flipped it over so that her palm was faced towards the sky and placed a small coin in the middle. It was nothing like any coin Arya had ever seen.

“Here.”

“What is it?” Arya asked as she took her hand from Jaqen’s to examine the coin further. It looked worn down and smoothed from being held so many times; it had to be iron.

“A gift,” Jaqen answered. “A coin of great value.”

“Will it be able to buy us food?” Arya questioned again, looking up at Jaqen, curiosity laced into her features. Arya could see that there was amusement in Jaqen’s eyes at her words as he gave a short, sweet laugh.

“No, sweetling,” Jaqen chuckled. “It is not meant to be used to buy food.”

“Then what good is it?” Arya stressed as she continued to look at the now apparently useless coin. If she could not use it to buy food or new clothes for herself, why on earth would she want it? Jaqen took her hand in his again, closing her fingers around the metal as he covered her hand with both of his. He dipped slightly so that they were of equal height. Arya hoped he would not ask her to kiss him again.

“As well ask what good is life, what good is death?” Jaqen’s voice sounded sweet and reassuring, something Arya had not heard for a long time. “If the day comes when you would find me again or should the time come that you are ready to leave, give this coin to any man from Braavos and say these words to him:  _valar morghulis._ ”

The words were foreign, their meaning unknown to Arya. But she said them all the same. “Valar morghulis.” They were easy to say and Arya’s fist tightened over the coin in her hand. Her heart clenched in her chest. “Please don’t go, Jaqen.”

Jaqen smiled sadly as he placed a hand to her cheek, like what her father would do to her to keep her focused.  “Jaqen must die, Arya of House Stark. And I have promises to keep. Valar morghulis. Say it again.”

Arya was panicking, not sure of what to do. What did he mean he had to die? She had unnamed him, had made sure that he would not die and saved his life. She felt like a child again as fear seized her heart, wrapping a hand around it. Jaqen’s hand was warm on her cheek and she stared into his eyes.

“Valar morghulis.”

Jaqen let go of her hand and dropped his touch on her cheek as he pressed his lips to her forehead. “Farewell, Arya Stark. The time has come for Jaqen H’ghar to die.”

She almost wanted to yell at him then as her hand held onto the coin so fiercely it was hurting her. Her mouth opened to let out a shout as he stood up with his back straight and turned away from her. He reached a hand up to his face and Arya watched the back of his head, eyes widening as the red and silver of his hair melted away to a mousy brown. He turned to her and Jaqen gave her a nod – no, not Jaqen; A stranger with a stranger’s face where Jaqen’s had once been. But the red armour that Jaqen had worn was still there and so was the sword. The man’s nose was hooked and there was a terrible scar on his face. She stared in disbelief as the man dipped his head.

“Farewell, Arya of House Stark.”

She watched him leave in disbelief and stunned silence, her hand still wrapped around the iron coin.

 _Valar morghulis,_ Arya whispered to herself, burning the words into her mind.

* * *

 

The silence between the three of them was thick with tension and anxiety. Arya’s unnamed horse had a habit of bucking its head, the strands of its coarse hair hitting her in the face. It would have annoyed her had she not finally felt the complete and utter exhaustion that had taken over her. The sun was high up in the sky which was blue for once, as if rejoicing in Arya’s escape of Harrenhal. The air was muggy and thick, sweat trickling down her temple and her neck. Arya had forgotten how long periods of riding a horse would make her legs cramp and how her fingers felt stiff, the skin red and raw from holding tightly onto the reins. The last time Arya had been on a horse was all those months ago when she had been travelling from Winterfell to King’s Landing with her father and the then King. It had all been so different then; Nymeria was with her, Mycah lived and her father and King Robert had been alive. Dead mean walked in her memories and she could not be rid of the nightmares they left in their tracks.

Arya was careful not to urge her horse lest it would break out into a gallop and Gendry and Hot Pie would be left behind in the dust. Hot Pie made sure that the other two knew that he was in agony from being in the saddle for too long. Arya had told Hot Pie he would get used to it but Hot Pie seemed to dismiss the thought, claiming that he did not want to get used to it. And Arya wanted to agree with him; she didn’t want to get used to the constant worry that every day might be her last, that they would be caught and sent back to Harrenhal with a foot cut off. She feared that someone would discover who she was or that a man might try to take advantage of her. Arya tightened her legs as she tried to push that terrible thought from her mind.

The only person who remained silent was Gendry. He never complained, never made a sound and instead was a silent companion who glared at his surroundings as if they had spat on him. Maybe it was just a bastard thing to do, to just be angry at the world around you. Arya had not spoken to him or met his eyes – mostly because he seemed intent on ignoring her existence – ever since Jaqen had bid farewell, gave her the odd iron coin and “died.” She slipped the coin into the pocket of her breeches, sometimes reaching in and grasping the metal, running the pad of her thumb over the strange markings.  _Valar morghulis_ , Arya would whisper in her mind though she did not know what they meant.

Their first day of riding in silence passed with no circumstance but already, despite having calmed their horses to a simple walk, fatigue was quickly catching up to Arya, though she knew it had only been two days since she slept and a day since she last ate anything. Arya’s stomach was in too many knots and twists for her to eat something and she knew that if she were to force herself, the only result would be her vomiting the contents onto the ground. Instead, she took to sipping the water from one of the water skins that Hot Pie had managed to sneak out. It had originally been full of wine but Arya had dumped it out onto the green grass, the red liquid mimicking blood as the dirt drank it up heartily. The water she would sup was fresh and the leftover drops of wine that had been in the water skin made it taste fruity. Hot Pie had the other water skin, this one full of wine, strapped to his side making all three of them forced to share the one water skin.

The birds chirped and whistled in the trees, their songs ringing through the air. Arya could not help thing of Sansa as the birds sang, wondering how her sister fared. Was she even alive or had they took her pretty head off just like they did to their father? The last time Arya had seen her sister was the day they murdered Ned Stark; Arya remembered how Sansa smiled and stood there with her Southern style dress and hair style as if everything was perfect.  _Sansa was a stupid girl,_ Arya grumbled,  _she was stupid and an idiot. If it were not for her wanting to marry Joffrey we would not be here._ How could she have thought herself so in love with that monster? He was just a stupid pretty little shit who wore a golden crown upon his own golden crown of curls.  _It’s all Sansa’s fault._ Blaming Sansa made Arya feel better, to put a face to her misfortunes.

But Sansa was only a maiden still, at the age of five and ten. Soon, Sansa would be a woman grown and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

The day passed slowly, the time trickling by like a small river as she rode the horse. It was odd that everywhere around her was silent, almost peaceful. It was as if war did not exist outside these woods. The horses trudged through the trees, snorting and displeased with their situation; Arya knew that they would have to find a source of water to rest their horses by, but she didn’t want to stop, not yet.

By the time the sun was setting Arya could already feel the effect of denying herself sleep; her eyes were growing heavier and heavier and a yawn kept clawing itself up through her throat. But her fear was stronger than her desire. The moon was bright in the sky, the light thin and sparse before Arya’s eyes. She thought of then of the cat she would sometimes chase through the dungeons of the Red Keep; it had been black and quick footed, not afraid to swipe its claws and leave you bleeding. Arya had never managed to catch him, never managed to grab the little shit by its mangy, matted fur and smile at it victorious, the claws scraping the empty air. Maybe she could be a cat for a while instead of a wolf; be quick footed and sly instead of relying on being strong. Arya was a wolf but she wanted to be a cat.

The air was cold and it was harsh, hands wrapping itself around her body so that she could feel herself turn blue. Arya couldn’t believe that she was letting it irritate her when she had grown up in the North, where snow was always there, always constant. But then again, she had worn furs and thick woollen dresses with fine leather shoes. She had slept in a warm bed with a fire lit. She would not be weak; Arya squared her shoulders and let out a huff, the mist swirling before her eyes before rising up, up, up into the dark cloudy night sky. Her tunic and jerkin was stiff with the dried in blood, turning her into a bloody sight to set your eyes upon; her bones felt sore to move and her thighs were in pain but she persevered.  _I must be strong._

But everything hurt; alone in her silence, her thoughts made an appearance, whispering all the wrongs she had done and clawing at the cage inside her mind. She felt like Shaggydog then, so fierce so  _angry._ Neither of her two companions spoke, save for Hot Pie complaining. Gendry did not speak to her nor did he even seem to acknowledge her presence at the moment. He seemed angry at her but for what, Arya did not know.  _Just a stupid boy_ , Arya told herself in a displeased voice,  _who cares what he thinks?_

Arya cared very much about what Gendry thought, especially if it was in regards to her.

She tried to scramble a reason why he was ignoring her; was it the fact she killed a man? Was it because she was not sorry that she killed said man? Her thoughts grew deeper and deeper, building a wider chasm with walls made of worry and regret that could not be filled in. He had no right to be angry at her, all Arya did she did for him – for the only two people who were the closest things to friends that she had at the moment. Arya had saved not only his life but Hot Pie’s and her own life, too. Had they stayed there longer, the chance of dying would increase by each passing day. And the chance she might never return home. Arya had to lead them home, had to lead them to the only place she knew to be safe in the entire Seven Kingdoms. But Arya didn’t know how to lead; she was taught pretty songs and poems, taught how to sew, how to dance and how to be a lady. She didn’t know how to lead and had never thought she would be in the position to actually have to worry about being a leader.

But they were her pack now and she had to protect them – protect  _him._

The moon crawled steadily into the dark canvas of the starless night sky, nestling itself high above the trees as Arya swallowed back a yawn that made its way up her throat. She couldn’t sleep, not now, not here. Not when there was a chance her enemies were not far behind them. The horse beneath her kept at a fast but steady pace, as if knowing that should it stop, its previous masters would not be so kind to them. There was no singing of the birds or croak of the frog or chirping of crickets, there was only silence. And silence could be a dangerous thing when you had dangerous thoughts.

“I need to take a piss,” Hot Pie complained as he shifted in his saddle. His voice startled Arya, making her jump around to face him just as Gendry did the same, the sound of someone speaking new and frightening. It had been ages since someone had last spoke.

“We can’t stop,” Arya replied, impatient with the boy. “If we stop they might catch up to us.”

“But we’ve been ridin’ for nearly two days!” Hot Pie groaned and seemed to sway from the moving horse beneath him. His fat chubby cheeks were red from the cold and Arya could see the purple beneath his eyes. Arya pulled her horse to a stop, letting out an impatient sigh whilst Gendry stopped next to her, mouth sewn shut. Arya briefly thought if his tongue had been cut out when she wasn’t looking; maybe he had become like Ser Illyn Payne. The thought made a shiver trickle down her spine.

Arya bit her lip as her horse moved from hoof to hoof beneath her, relishing in the rest it had been given. She knew that they were exhausting the horses and eventually one might collapse should they not stop to rest the beasts. Finally, Arya let out another sigh and gave Hot Pie a quick nod.

“Three minutes. We’ll wait here. If you aren’t back we’ll leave you behind.”

Arya had never seen the fat boy move so fast in his life as he ungracefully hopped off the horse and waddled away to find a tree to piss on. Arya herself decided to get off her own horse too, swinging her leg from the stirrup and onto the ground. The instant response of pain caused her to swallow a hiss as she stretched her legs and arms, reaching up above her head and knotting her fingers as she wriggled her toes from beneath the worn leather of her shoes.

Arya reached for the water that she usually kept at her hip when she realised that it was not there; Gendry had taken it earlier and had forgotten to give it back. The thirst that was becoming more prominent was itching at her throat. Then she also remembered how they had run out of the water and was forced to resort to the wine. Finding a stream wouldn’t be that hard but the darkness made it difficult and she did not wish to risk wandering off alone.

Arya made her way to Hot Pie’s horse and took the bag from upon the saddle, dropping it to the ground as she let herself sit down on the dewy grass. Her hand wrapped around the water skin and she pulled it out, uncorking it and bringing it to her chapped lips. The taste was sweet and strong, leaving a burning trail down her throat. Arya nearly coughed it up but forced it to remain in her stomach as her sleeve wiped away the droplet running down her chin.

“You should eat,” she heard him speak. Arya’s eyes darted up to see Gendry settling himself beside her, taking the bag of provisions from her lap and taking out a single piece of bread. The thought of eating made Arya want to vomit and instead she took to taking another sip of the wine. It was far more bitter than what she was used to back home in Winterfell but it was something familiar, something that left a lingering taste of strawberries and home laced in her mouth.

“I can’t,” Arya answered with her tone soft and gentle as she put the cork back into the wine skin. Gendry took it from her hand then, his fingers brushing against her own. His hands were rough and calloused, like her father’s had been. It sent a pang of pain through her fragile heart.

“It’ll make you feel better,” Gendry insisted, holding the bread out towards her, his face straight. “You haven’t eaten in days.”

He was right; Arya couldn’t deny it, but the thought of having to chew on food made her stomach knot and twist. She was about to refuse and tell him to leave her alone, that it wasn’t his business, when he held the piece of bread out to here, eyes watching and ever silent. Her mouth closed on its own accord before she dropped her gaze to her lap. Already she was too skinny and small for her age but that was how she had always been. Still, she took the stale bread in her own hand and brought it to her mouth before sinking her teeth into it.

Arya thought of another life where it was a deer she was sinking her fangs into, not bread; that it was the rush of hot blood running down her neck, not wine. It was dry on her tongue and broke apart in her mouth, sticking to the roof of her mouth and her cheeks. But Arya made sure she ate it; she would not die from her own idiocy.

Arya did not thank him and he did not say anything; she took another dreaded bite of the bread as Gendry took a small sip of the wine. Arya would make sure that she would spill the wine out and fill the two water skins with water. Her stomach already felt full and Arya set the bread aside, promising to herself that she would eat the rest in the morning.  _If we live that long._  The thought of Vargo Hoat and the band of the Bloody Mummers made Arya want to throw up what little food she had in her stomach.

“Here.”

Gendry’s voice drew Arya attention as he handed her something; it was an itchy material but thick and warm. Arya ran it through her fingers, eyebrows knitting together as she lifted it up to see what it was in the darkness. The cloth felt heavy and was large, strings of thread sticking out to show how worn and old it was. She ran her fingers over it as she set it on her lap, brushing her hand over the canvas as her eyebrows furrowed.

“I thought…” Gendry spoke, drawing her attention. It was dark and only the pale light of the moon ghosts half his face. He was not looking at her but was staring at the water skin he had in his hand. His hair was falling over the collar of his jerkin and down upon his eyes like a black curtain hiding the sea of blue beneath. “I thought that you wouldn’t want to walk ‘round wearing Lannister clothes. And that… that you might be cold.”

Arya had weathered greater storms than this with her frail body and would not let herself be broken. But Arya could not help but gape at Gendry, at his words. Had she been softer and gentler, she would have hugged him, would have thanked him with a peck on the cheek like Sansa would have down. But Arya was not Sansa. She could not be Sansa. She could not even be Arya Stark. However, Arya could not stop herself from feeling grateful towards Gendry. Arya could not remember a time someone had taken time to think of her wellbeing. The only people ever to really care about her, truly care, was her father and Jon. Suddenly, this piece of cloth was more than just a shirt. It was a kindness towards Arya that she had not been given for the past few months. It was like Jon giving her Needle. The thought nearly made her weep.

Arya held it in one hand and brought it close to her chest, knotting her fingers into the fabric as a lump began to form in the base her throat.  _I cannot cry over such small things. I am a woman. I am a wolf._ Arya stretched out her other hand, hesitating and slow as her fingers placed themselves on the curve of Gendry’s shoulder. A familiar touch, one that Arya had not bestowed on anyone for so long. The memory of her father’s lips touching her forehead and her arms around Jon Snow as they said goodbye.  _Don’t forget me._ He had given her a small, sad smile at that.  _I won’t._

Gendry turned his eyes to her at her sudden touch, looking at her through the strands of his curly black hair. His lips parted and his cheeks were pink, the dusty rose colour spilling across like ink across a piece of parchment. Her hand stayed there on his shoulder, unsure and hesitant but she lingered, feeling just how warm he was beneath her palm. There was a tug in her heart and her stomach felt light and knotted. Arya could not keep her eyes on Gendry’s, the warmth crawling up from beneath the collar of her tunic to her cheeks. She was almost relieved when she heard Hot Pie walking back, cracking sticks beneath his heavy footsteps.

Arya quickly pulled her hand back as she felt her cheeks turn red from the embarrassment. Her mouth felt dry even though she had already sipped wine from the water skin. Arya scrambled to her feet, looking to Hot Pie who was still lacing up his breeches.

“Hurry up. We need to leave.”

Gendry, too, got to his feet, lifting the sack of food back onto Hot Pie’s horse and walking by her to pull himself up onto his horse. Arya couldn’t look at him, couldn’t even glance at his direction without her cheeks turning red.  _Don’t be so stupid,_ she snapped at herself.  _Don’t be like Sansa._ Arya walked away from Hot Pie’s horse and to her own, clutching the thick tunic to her chest. Arya paused in her footsteps as she took the shirt in both hands, eyeing it for a moment, before deciding to slip it over her head, mussing up her hair around her. It was big, bigger than her own, and the sleeves fell down over her fingertips as the hem of the shirt fell midway to her thigh. Arya thought she would look ridiculous but it hid her breasts and her hips. Not to mention it was  _warm._  Arya could not help but catch the scent of soot and rain.  _It smells of him._ She shook her head at her thought and forced herself to loop her foot into the stirrup again, pulling herself into the uncomfortable saddle.

_The lone wolf dies but the pack survives._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not really sure about this short chapter but oh well.


	12. The Lone Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amidst the war ravaging the land of Westeros, a lone Stark must find her way home, to her true family.
> 
> And yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I do not own any of the characters, places or story lines (unless stated otherwise) mentioned in the work; they all belong to their owner: G.R.R Martin  
> \- Mostly original dialogue.  
> \- A work of fiction previously known as "The Bull and the Wolf."  
> \- comments are very much appreciated!  
> 

  _ **Chapter Twelve**_

_I need to be brave; I need to be a wolf._

The wolf worked in the night, prowling through the leaves and bushes, waiting and watching with golden eyes glinting in the night like stars against the backdrop of the sky. Arya had no fur though and her teeth were wooden.  _A fake, that’s all I am._ The almost rhythmic swaying of the horse that she sat upon had lulled her, making her eyes droop and her vision blur. Her eyes were trained on the horse’s ears, watching as they twitched and turned about, listening. They looked so soft and gentle that Arya almost wanted to reach out and touch them; instead, Arya let herself being entranced by the horse’s ear twitching, letting herself fall deeper and deeper into unconsciousness.

Arya had dreamed then; she dreamed of home, of her father and her mother. She dreamed that she was swinging around the practise sword in the courtyard with Bran and Jon and Robb. She could hear Rickon laughing as he ran around them, giggling and squealing. Even Sansa had been there, too, with her hair in braids and her dress swirling around her like blue mist around the ankles early in the morning, clinging to dewy grass. She had been laughing her girlish laugh as she told Arya  _it is wonderful to be in love, isn’t it?_  Arya had told her sister that she had never been in love but Sansa only laughed at that, pinching her sister’s cheek as bells chimed in Arya’s ears. And then her sister sang in her pretty voice; of what the song was, Arya did not know. It seemed sad but lovely none the less. Maybe it was a love song. Sansa always did love the songs about maidens and knights falling in love.

_I loved a maid as fair as summer_

_with sunlight in her hair._

_I loved a maid as red as autumn_

_with sunset in her hair;_

_I loved a maid as white as winter_

_with moonglow in her hair._

Tears on her cheek and salt on her tongue, Arya turned away from her sister, not wanting to listen to Sansa’s heartbreak anymore. Sansa smelled of petals, the sweet smell of flowers engulfing Arya as the scent of smoke and soot lingered.

It had been a nice dream; she had been warm and felt loved. She had seen Jon and she wanted to tell him all the horrible things that had happened and how she never wanted to leave him again. The dream had almost seemed to claim Arya’s mind, making it seem like it lasted hours and hours.

And then someone awoke her.

Arya head had snapped up and her hand instinctively went to the dirk on her belt, the same blade that she had stolen from the dead solider after she stuck it in his soft, pink flesh. Her fingers were clumsy and stiff from holding onto the reins but she brought it upwards only to see it was Gendry. Relief flooded through her as the panic, a panic she had not felt creep up on her, that rushed in her veins subsided. He had stopped his horse near her and only then had Arya realised she had fallen asleep. The dream had not been real. It had all been in her stupid, childish head.

Arya wanted to cry.

But she didn’t, she could not muster the energy to let out the sob that had been buried in her chest for so long, hidden beneath the panic and anxiety. She needed to be strong.  _I am Arya Stark of Winterfell. I will not bawl like a baby._ Instead Arya let her body slump as she placed the blade back into her belt, blinking away the bleariness in her eyes. Gendry’s hand left her own as he sat up straighter in the horse.

“We should rest for what’s left of the night,” he told Arya in a soft voice. He was tired too. Arya felt the guilt of not thinking about the fact that he was struggling to stay away as much as she. It was unfair of her to force him to trudge through the Riverlands. “I didn’t know you were asleep ‘til I rode up beside you; you shouldn’t force yourself to stay awake.”

“But – ” Arya wanted to tell him that if they rested Vargo Hoat’s men might catch up to them but Gendry threw her a look that made her close her mouth. Sometimes Arya forgot how he was far older than her.

“Hot Pie’s already asleep,” Gendry told her, jutting his thumb over his shoulder, indicating to Arya where Hot Pie had obviously fallen off his horse and onto the ground, unconscious. His horse was attempting to eat the fat boy’s hair as Hot Pie lay curled into a ball. “It’s alright; I’ll take first watch.”

“No,” Arya shook her head. She had already managed to sleep for a while whereas it had been two days since Gendry last slept. “You haven’t sleep for a while. I’ll be alright taking the first watch.”

Gendry seemed ready to argue, opening his mouth, before he shook his head, black strands of hair swaying around him like the leaves rustling in the trees. In the watery light of the pale, silver moon Gendry’s hair seemed almost to shine like a midnight blue, a night sky in itself with raindrops for stars clinging to the sky, twinkling and shining. His hair looked soft, making Arya almost wish to run her fingers through it. The curls clung to his temple and forehead as Arya watched Gendry unhook a foot from the stirrup and swing himself down onto the ground. She shook her head, chastising herself for staring at him like a fool – like what Sansa used to do when she saw Joffrey or when Jeyne Poole would catch a glimpse of Beric Dondarrion.

Arya followed suit, grateful for being able to have some time to stretch her stiff limbs, hearing the satisfying pop of her aching bones. The leaves and fallen branches beneath her cracked under her feet as she made sure to slip the reins of her horse over its head and tie it to a low branch of a slumping gnarled tree that seemed too small around the forest. Gendry had followed her lead, also holding the reins of Hot Pie’s horse in the other hand as he wrapped the leather around the branch beside Arya’s horse. Arya turned away from him, eyes squinting through the darkness to find the most comfortable spot on the forest floor to sleep on. She spied a bed of dead leaves near the base of an oak tree, suddenly thinking of the godswood back home.

Arya wished there had been a weirwood tree nearby so that she may have asked the Old Gods what she should do.  _No_ , Arya whispered to herself then.  _Why should I pray to the gods when they never helped my father?_ Bitterness was sour on Arya tongue as she settled herself down, leaning back as she tucked her legs up to her chest. Her hair prickled the skin of her neck and Arya chewed on her bottom lip, letting out a huff of air as she tried to swallow the lump in her throat.

The one thing Arya had liked about her brief stay in Harrenhal was the fact she was always busy – which meant she had no time to let her thoughts dwell on her father or any of her family members for long. But now she was given a space in her mind to think, the quiet seeming too loud for her and she didn’t like it. Gendry lay down beside her, his back towards her; there was a space of an arm’s length between them. Arya missed the days of when she would be able to sleep in a proper bed, to lay her head onto a soft pillow. But the feel of silk on skin had disappeared from Arya’s mind; time had seemed trickled by like a small stream, water rushing over rocks. Arya could not tell how long it had been since she left King’s Landing, how long it had been since her father was murdered. How many months had it been? Four? Six? Arya did not know but she could still remember every detail of that dreadful day.

Arya shook her head, forcing herself to stay focused on her surroundings, to keep her ears sharp. She had to be a wolf, she could be like Nymeria. Arya thought of a life where she ran down her prey on her paws, thought of sinking her teeth into the soft flesh of the deer and letting the blood run like a river down her throat. In her dreams, she was truly a wolf.

Arya struggled to keep her eyes opened, a pain forming in between her temples as she kept her gaze focused on a certain spot in the darkness. A shiver ran through Arya’s small body, causing the young girl to pull herself together tighter, her hands bunched up into fists in beneath her arms. Arya wished for thicker clothes, wished for the walls of Winterfell.  _I wish I never left home._

By the time her two hours were up, Gendry had already awoken to relieve her of her duty. Arya was unsure if she even wanted to sleep. Would dreams of her father continue to haunt her? Would she forever be reminded that this was who she was now: a murderer? Shaking her head, Arya let herself curl up into a ball, her back facing Gendry as her hands knotted together.  _Joffrey, Cersei, Illyn Payne._  Arya wanted her mother, she wanted Jon.  _The Mountain, the Hound, Meryn Trant, Polliver_. Would they even want her, would they even care about her? She was a dirty, ugly little girl. What use was she to them?  _The Tickler, Raff the Sweetling, Amory Lorch_. Her list went on and on with the same names, wordless whispers leaving her chapped lips as she squeezed her eyes, tiny stars dancing in the darkness.

_Joffrey, Cersei, Illyn Payne, the Hound, the Mountain, Meryn Trant, Polliver, the Tickler, Raff the Sweetling, Amory Lorch. Joffrey, Cersei, Illyn Payne, the Hound, the Mountain, Meryn Trant, Polliver, the Tickler, Raff the Sweetling, Amory Lorch._

“Valar morghulis,” Arya whispered to herself, letting her mind wander into sleep.

* * *

 

_Swift as a deer._

Fear cuts deeper than swords.

_Quiet as a shadow._

Fear cuts deeper than swords.

_Calm as still water._

Fear cuts deeper than swords.

 _The lone wolf dies but the pack survives_.

Arya was a wolf. But she was alone.

 _Where was her pack?_  Her pack had been Jon, Robb, Bran, Rickon, Sansa and Father And Mother. They were gone, like dust in the wind during a storm. She was a lone wolf, prowling in the darkness.  _Where was her pack?_  She was alone, howling against the canvas of the moon. Syrio, Jaqen Yoren had been her pack but they had left her, too. Prowling, a grey wolf against the snow as blood was sticky against her muzzle. It was cold, the snow trying to drag her down, down, down into the hold of sleep – no not sleep,  _death_.

_Where is my pack?_

_Why am I alone?_

_Where are Father and Mother? Where are Robb and Jon and Bran and Rickon? Where is Sansa? I want to go home; I want Nymeria and my horse. I want Father. I want Jon._

But Jon had disappeared, had left her alone to be swallowed up by the darkness and her own regret. Arya wanted to scream, to cry but whenever she opened her mouth dust and ash would fill it, making her choke and find it difficult to breathe. She was on her hands on knees –  _I’m supposed to be a wolf like Father_ – spitting out the ash onto the floor beneath her. Not ash – it was blood that was thick on her tongue. Blood was dripping from her mouth, a pool forming between her hands as she reached up the wipe away the trail. Like rouge smeared across her skin, Arya could feel the thick hot tears make tracks down her dirtied cheeks.  _Who would want me now? I’m just an ugly, dirty girl with blood on her hands._ Arya made to clean her cheeks of her tears but all Arya could see was red. Like Mother and Sansa’s hair but deeper, angrier. Like the faces of the weirwood tree in the godswood. Arya could not choke back the sob that spilled like a never ending river, gushing past her red lips.

Guts gripping in the dark, her hands went to her stomach that was spilling. Her thighs were slick with the red and it felt as if someone had stabbed her but Arya could not find a blade. Her fingers tore mercilessly at her clothes, tearing away at the fabric until her stomach was laid bare. There was no wound, no cause to the blooding. It was staining her dress like dye –  _Mother will get angry at me. I have to clean it. I’m a lady. I can’t be dirty._ But blood continued to gushing from between her legs, like a red flower blooming on the blue of her skirts. She couldn’t stand, couldn’t breathe.

A hand on her shoulder startled her and Arya looked up through the red tears. Grey eyes she met – grey and blue. An endless sea of other eyes watched her, ones she did not know and ones she did. Arya tried to make out the face, tried to let her eyes follow the curve of the jaw, the shape of the mouth. But it kept changing. As if someone tried to wash away the spilled ink but the cloth could not mop it up and instead was smearing it. She wanted her Father, she wanted Jon. Arya felt like she was five again, weeping over her septa yelling at her for not being as good as Sansa at – well, anything. Arya couldn’t sew or dance or sing like a proper lady, not even if she tried.  _I am a better wolf than a lady_. Arya tried to yell out for help but the blood in her mouth stopped her, spittle flying from her lips.

 _Please_ , Arya wanted to whisper,  _please, help me. I’m dying._  The blood was thick and warm as Arya clutched at her skirts, the scarlet stain becoming bigger as it made her legs feel sticky.

“Oh, Arya,” the voice spoke. It was her father, her mother, her brothers and her sister. Blue eyes and grey eyes, forever turning away from Arya, forever ignoring her. “You’re a woman now! Soon you shall wed a lord and bear his children!”

 _No,_  Arya wanted to reply. _I will never wed a lord for no lord will have me. I will never bear his children for I will not lie with a lord. I will be forever a maid, forever a lady with no lord husband. Forever a Stark._  She was dying, bleeding herself dry and Arya could not keep her eyes open. Would she be with Father soon? She wanted Jon, wanted him to wipe away her tears after Sansa and Jeyne Poole laughed at her stitching, laughed at her for even trying.  _You’d be a better dog than a lady._   Arya wanted Jon and how he would sneak her sweet cakes sometimes, how he would help clean the scrapes on her knees from her climbing. How Jon would sometimes ruffle her already mussed up hair and how he would laugh when she would rain kisses down upon him. But he left her.

_He left her._

He didn’t want her.

No one did.

Her mouth felt dry and fuzzy despite the blood staining it. Arya could hear people talking over one another, all saying the same thing but sounding wrong, sounding different. Arya was alone in the room of ghosts, feeling like she was the one who did not belong. She wanted to go home. But there was not a home to go to. They were laughing at her and congratulating her, smiles sharper than blades. She was going to die; _she was going to die_.

Her hair fell around her, a cloud of dirty mousy brown hair tickling her skin as it floated to the tiles.  _No,_ Arya sobbed as she watched the strands fall around her,  _not my hair, please; not my hair_. Thick braids fell to her lap as the strands clung to her wet cheeks and eyelashes, soft touches of a previous life scarring her skin.

Where was her pack? Would she be forced to live her life as a wolf dressed as a bird with wings clipped? Arya didn’t want to fight, didn’t want to be a knight. She wanted to play with Bran in the courtyard at Winterfell, wanted to play monsters – and – maidens with Robb in the crypts. She wanted to crawl into Jon Snow’s bed after having a terrible nightmare, have him tell her  _it was just a dream_  and to hug her, to let her feel safe. She wanted to lay her head down and  _sleep_. But that was a distant dream for silly little children. Arya couldn’t be a child. She had to be strong, like her mother.

But how could Arya be strong? She was only ten and three, practically a woman now but Arya didn’t want to be. All her life, her family told Arya that she would marry some stupid, fat old lord, fall in love and have his children. She wouldn’t have to be beautiful for him to love her, Arya would just have to be kind and obey her lord husband. The blood she was choking tasted of all lies that had been shoved down her throat.

They didn’t love her, no one did. Arya couldn’t be a lady, couldn’t be pretty like they wanted.

_Where was her pack?_

Arya didn’t have a pack.

Not anymore.

_Gendry is my pack._

Gendry wouldn’t care if she wore breeches or a dress.  Gendry wouldn’t care if she never brushed her hair. They could run off together, live their days out in the forests. They would only ever need each other. Arya wouldn’t have to sing or dance, wouldn’t have to eat her food like a proper lady. They could live as outlaws, like Wenda the White Fawn.

_It wouldn’t matter as long as I had Gendry._

Arya was drowning, drowning in all the words people threw at her, the blood that seeped from her small body. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t open her eyes and couldn’t move. It was dark all round her, smothering her. Her dress was too tight around her, stopping the rise and fall of her chest. Arya could still hear them, could still hear their words above the sound of water rushing around her.

_I can’t breathe! I’m going to die!_

_I’m –_

* * *

 

Arya sprung up from where she was lying, not really noticing the dead left stuck to her cheek or the twigs and blades of grass clinging to her hair. The sun was climbing slowly up above the trees, winking in the cold, grey sky. Arya briefly forgot where she was and why she was sleeping in the ground. At any minute she would have expected Nymeria to appear, red tongue licking her cheek.  But that couldn’t be; Nymeria was gone.

Arya then recalled at how she had fallen asleep by accident during the night, how her head couldn’t support itself any more and she had involuntarily slipped into a light sleep, chin on her chest as her body threatened to fall forward off the horse and off her saddle, onto the ground. Arya had not known how long she had drifted off for but it any amount of time was too long for her. She couldn’t rest, not so soon and too close to Harrenhal. They had ridden for two days and three nights but Arya knew they were far too close for her liking.

Gendry was warm beside her and Arya reached up to rub whatever sleep there was left from her eyes. Panic seized her heart as she quickly got to her feet, hand clutching at her belly.  _There had been so much blood._ Gendry began to wake at her startling him but she turned away, eyes catching sight of Hot Pie as he munched happily on a lump of cheese. There was a dull ache in Arya’s tummy and she could feel her mind running a mile a minute.  _What if I’ve started bleeding? What if I flowered?_

“We leave in two minutes,” Arya told the other two, walking over to where her horse had been tied for the night and loosened the knot around the branch. “If you need to piss, do it now.” Her words were directed at Hot Pie he seemed not to hear her as he took another bite out of the lump of cheese.

Arya rushed herself off into the trees, one arm wrapped around her waist and the other up at her mouth, teeth gnawing at her already chewed fingernails that were practically stumps. Her stomach coiled and grumbled from the lack of food, aching and biting as she tried to ignore the intense hunger she felt in her soul. Her feet hopped over the forest floor and the dead branches, lying like dead bodies surrounded by the fallen brown leaves. There was a chill in the morning air, one that made Arya’s skin prickle and goose pimples to rush over her skin. Her hair found itself locked behind her ears as the collar of Gendry’s tunic scratched at her neck. The birds had still yet to fully wake, leaving behind a pregnant silence only filled by Arya’s heartbeats and the crickets chirping.

Finally, Arya ducked herself behind the trunk of a rather large tree, her eyes nervously glancing around with her a hand at the laces of her breeches. Assured that she was alone, Arya quickly undid the laces of her breeches, pulling the material down to below her ankles. Her hand swept over the unmarked canvas of her inner thighs and, to her utter most relief, there was no sign of blood at all. Her small clothes were not red either. The ache in her stomach stayed there, however, and Arya pulled up her tunic, wondering if her lack of eating was due to these sudden cramps. The last thing Arya needed was for her bleeding to start, now of all times. Her septa had always told her that when a girl had flowered it meant she was a full grown woman and that she would be ready for marriage. Arya had asked when a girl’s flowering would start and was surprised to find out that it was at the early age of two and ten. Arya remembered how Sansa had cried because she had not started her bleeding at all – even at the age of four and ten – and feared that she would not be able to get married.  _Not everything is about marriage,_ Arya had told Sansa, almost in hopes of soothing her. But it did not help.

 _Of course you would say that,_ Sansa snapped back, blue eyes like a sea.  _You’re just an ugly girl who no one would ever want to marry._

It was an old hurt, one that had scabbed and healed but Arya could not help but pick at the scar. She picked up her breeches and tied them at her waist, almost re faced from attempting not to cry. Her hands were rough and calloused, tiny white scars dotted on the skin of her fingers and her palms. Her lady mother used to say she had black smith hands from how tough the skin was for a lady. Arya remembered just how much her mother would chastise Arya for not being the perfect lady, for not being like Sansa.  _Maybe if you brushed your hair and cleaned your face you could be pretty._ Her hair was a mess of uneven, greasy and stringy strands and her face was smeared with dirt and flaky lines of blood.

Arya let a sigh, trying to calm the over whelming rush of emotions. She couldn’t dwell on such things, not now.  _I am Arya Stark. I am a wolf._ She turned away on her heel and trudged back to Gendry and Hot Pie, all the while chanting  _I am a wolf_ in her mind.

* * *

 

Arya managed to find a small stream of water to fill the water skins and to wash the blood of her hands with. The water gurgled and slurped, slipping over the rocks like silk over skin. It felt good to wash herself, cupping her hands beneath the water and scrubbing her skin. Arya splashed her face, running her hands over it as the cleaned herself of the sweat and grime. Arya thought of maybe washing her hair that was becoming more difficult to deal with. It had grown far too long for Arya’s liking.

They rode from the moment the sun was up high enough until the moon replaced it in the night sky. Each night was the same. Arya would take first watch, then followed Gendry and finally Hot Pie. Slowly, over the course of their slow journey, the fear that once took hold of Arya began to disappear. She let them rest the horses for longer, to let them stop for food and water. It was odd, as if nothing that was happening to her was actually  _happening._ It was as if everything was a dream. She woke, she ate, she drank, she pissed and then she went to sleep. It repeated itself day by day.

Hot Pie continued to complain, saying that the saddle was uncomfortable or that his tummy was sore from the lack of eating. Arya turned to Gendry one day, growing weary of the constant yapping of the fat boy.

“If he falls off his horse who do you think would catch him first: the wolves or the Bloody Mummers?” Arya joked, almost smiling when she saw Hot Pie’s fat face drain a little.  Gendry turned to her, a small smile on his own lips, screwing his face up as if he was giving it genuine thought.

“The wolves,” Gendry concluded with a nod of his head. “Better noses.”

Hot Pie kept his mouth shut after that.

Their days passed into night and so forth until Arya could not keep count of how many times the sun rose and then the moon rose in its place. It could have been days or weeks and she might not have known. All the while, she tried to keep herself hoping that they might run into Northern men, into her father’s men. She could have told them that she was Arya Stark and they would have taken her to her brother and her mother. Arya tried to picture them, tried to imagine what her mother and her brother looked like with their fiery red hair and their blue eyes.

Arya had kept her eyes half shut, trying to picture her family, when a shout startled her. Her heart leapt into the base of her throat and she whirled around in her saddle, thoughts jumping to the Bloody Mummers.  _They found us!_

Instead, it was Gendry her eyes landed on; his horse lay on the ground, having tripped over the uneven floor of the forest and thrown Gendry off. Arya instantly swung her leg from the stirrup and onto the ground, not caring to toss the reins of her horse to Hot Pie so that the creature would not run off on her. Gendry’s horse neighed and bucked its head on the ground, legs trying to pull itself up. Arya went to Gendry’s side, grabbing him by the arm and helping him up. He winced as he got to his feet but kept his mouth closed, jaw clenching.

“Are you alright?” Arya asked him, eyes glancing over him to see if he was hurt. The only thing Arya could see that showed signs of Gendry being maimed were a cut on his cheek. Leaves clung to the left side of his body, sticking to his strands of his hair, the sleeve of his tunic, and his breeches. Gendry shook his head from left to right, freeing himself of the leaves as Arya brushed the rest from his arm. The horse continued to whinny in distress as it attempted to rise to its feet but failed each time.

Arya looked to the beast, wondering why it had not risen yet when she spied its front left leg: it was bent and crooked, out of place.  _Broken,_  Arya concluded solemnly, pity swirling within her for the creature. The horse could not be healed or ridden, that was evident enough for Arya who had spent most of her life if not on the horses, but around them. She bit her lip as she let go of Gendry, turning to him.

“Its leg is broken,” Arya whispered to him, eyebrows furrowing together. Gendry’s eyes met her and she placed a hand on the dirk on her belt. Gendry seemed confused for a moment before his eyes darted to her hand and then his face fell, looking to the horse again.

“Oh,” was his reply as he watched the horse writhe in pain from its broken limb. Arya didn’t want to hurt the beast but it would only continue to suffer if she did not put it out of its misery. Gulping, Arya turned to Hot Pie who had been watching all this unfold atop of his horse. She walked to her own horse and gave him the reins.

“Take the horse behind the tree and don’t let him see,” Arya instructed. Hot Pie seemed confused and unsure, eyes darting from the horse on the ground, to Gendry and finally to Arya.

“Why?” Hot Pie asked. “What’re you goin’ to do?”

“Just do as I say,” Arya snapped back, nudging the horse forward, leaving Hot Pie to guide it behind to thick base of the tree she had told him to go to. Arya turned back to Gendry who had knelt down beside the head of the horse, his hand on the base of its thick neck in hopes of soothing it. He ran his fingers through the coarse hair of the beast’s mane, patting it and making shushing noises as the horse began to calm down.

Arya made her way back, making sure the horse would not see the silver glinting metal of the blade as she took it from her belt. Her teeth grasped the flesh of her bottom lip as her knees fell to the ground, keeping out of the horse’s limited line of sight. Her heart lurched in her chest, pounding as she held the blade unsteady in her small hand.

She hesitated, unsure; Arya knew that the horse could not stand up on its leg and there was not a single person around for miles who would be able to heal it. Her eyes met Gendry’s as he continued to stroke the horse, a grim look on his face. Slowly, Arya brought the blade closer to the horse’s neck, her hand shaking as she did so. Arya didn’t want to kill the poor creature but knew there was no other choice. But still, she could not find it in her to swipe the edge of the blade across the soft flesh of the horse’s neck.

“Arya…”

It was Gendry and he was watching her, watching her hesitate. Arya didn’t know what to do; she felt like such a helpless child then, not being able to but a suffering horse out of misery. Arya continued to chew on her lip as her hand faltered, the confidence she had before slinking away. Her eyes moved to the horse’s own brown eyes, watching it snort and attempt to see what was happening.

Suddenly, a hand clasped itself around hers. The action startled Arya, making her return her gaze to Gendry’s as he gave her a small sad smile. Her lips parted as she felt her heart beat faster, like a thousand horses’ hoofs crashing against her fragile ribcage. Redness bloomed beneath her cheeks as she felt Gendry’s fingers unwind her own around the hilt of the dagger. Arya watched Gendry as he took the blade in his own hand and brought it to the neck of the horse. With a moment’s hesitation, Gendry flicked the edge across the flesh.

The death was not instant but it was brief. The horse thrashed for a sudden moment, blood pouring out from the gaping wound before its head fell to the ground, body still and unmoving. The river gushing from the red smile was being soaked up by the dirt, gulping it as Arya moved away from the redness, not wanting to get it on her and end up smelling of horse’s blood for a long while. Gendry too moved away, making his way around the head of the now dead creature, standing beside Arya as they watched the blood pour onto the ground in front of their feet.

“Are you… are you okay?” Gendry asked her, turning towards the smaller girl as he slipped the dagger back into her belt. Arya tore her eyes away from the scene in front of them. She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. Arya didn’t know why she hesitated, why she could not find it as easy to slit the horse’s throat as she did the soldier’s back in Harrenhal.

“I’m fine,” Arya finally decided. “It’s just…” Just what? She didn’t know. Arya didn’t know why she had hesitated, why she couldn’t do it. Maybe she was truly weak after all. Almost drowning in the self-doubt thoughts forming in her mind, Gendry’s hand appeared on her elbow.

“Arya, you don’t need to make an excuse,” Gendry told her. “It’s… it’s human to not want to hurt something that did no wrong.”

Was that why? Was she truly human because she felt sad for the horse’s death but not for a man’s? It didn’t feel like a reason at all. Arya wanted to tell Gendry that, to tell him that she couldn’t afford to hesitate to kill something especially if it meant that they were in danger. But no, he wouldn’t understand; he’d be disgusted by her; he would wrench his hand away from her arm and never be able to look at her. Her stomach clenched and twisted itself into knots as she forced the lump that formed in her throat back down.

“Thank you,” was all Arya could say to Gendry. Her hand reached up to cover itself over his, a gentle and soft touch that ghosted over the rough skin of the back of his hand. She could feel herself turn red in the cheeks but Arya made herself turn her eyes upwards to Gendry’s, a small smile on her lips. Gendry’s own cheeks were slightly pink too and he dropped the look, taking his hand back.

“We… we better get back,” Gendry mumbled, walking away from her. Arya almost called out for him but stopped, biting back the words on her tongue and tasting the blood they left behind. She couldn’t let herself be so rash, couldn’t let her emotions be the one thing that drove her thoughts. Still, Arya watched Gendry walk away from her. It was stupid and childish, the way she didn’t want him to leave. It wasn’t like he was going anywhere.

But…

Taking a deep breathe that was full of the fresh air and of blood, Arya turned away from the horse, following in Gendry’s footsteps as she tried to keep control of her thoughts. Hot Pie was waiting there like she had told him too and his piggy like eyes were wide as he saw the blood stained blade at Arya’s hip. Arya did not pay him any heed only to grab the leather reins he held and to swing her leg up and around the horse, placing it into the stirrup.

Arya then paused as she realised that Gendry had no horse. And she could feel her heart stutter when she came to conclusion that he would have to share. Hot Pie’s horse seemed like it could not take the weight due to the sack of food it had slung over its back and the fat boy it had on top of it. Arya could feel her cheeks heat up as she bit her lip, turning to Gendry.

“We’ll have to share a horse,” Arya told him, trying to ignore the blood rushing up her neck and into her cheeks, her heart pounding. Gendry looked at her, eyes wide and his mouth open, as if to argue. “You can’t  _walk_  all the way and… and… there’s more room on my horse.”  _By the gods, I feel so stupid!_  Arya truly felt like a stupid little girl then as her eyes turned away from Gendry, waiting for him to move. Arya pushed herself up further on the saddle, her legs at an awkward angle due to her feet being locked in the stirrup.

“Fine; alright,” Gendry relented, his voice rough and unsure. Arya turned away from him, reaching forward to pat her unnamed horse, running her fingers through the short, prickly hairs as her teeth chewed on her lip.

Arya suddenly felt the saddle shift slightly as Gendry wrapped a hand around the back of the saddle and then placed the other at the front of the saddle, brushing up against her inner thigh. His hair brushed against her arm as Gendry pulled himself up onto the saddle, his arm bending and lying down on her thigh as Gendry swung a leg of the back of the saddle. His leg fit beneath her own legs, dangling without a stirrup to put there. Arya felt her heart racing in her chest, Gendry’s breath hot on her scalp with is chest flush against her back. She was fit in between his legs, her arms brushing up against him. He was so  _warm_  and the smell of soot, sweat and rain enveloped Arya’s senses as she tried to ignore how dry her mouth felt. She brushed away her thoughts, squaring her shoulders so she could sit up straighter.

_I’m nearly home. I will soon see Robb and Mother._

Arya just hoped she would not lose herself along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> early update because i will be working so will not be able to update tomorrow.
> 
> but wow oh wow really don't like this chapter; only had a day and a half to write it because i've been at work and it was my birthday (which i also worked on.) Generally, I spend an entire week on writing a chapter but i haven't had the luxury this time.


	13. Greendreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amidst the war ravaging the land of Westeros, a lone Stark must find her way home, to her true family.
> 
> And yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I do not own any of the characters, places or story lines (unless stated otherwise) mentioned in the work; they all belong to their owner: G.R.R Martin  
> \- Mostly original dialogue.  
> \- A work of fiction previously known as "The Bull and the Wolf."  
> \- comments are very much appreciated!  
> \- for any more information, check out my profile!

**_Chapter Thirteen._ **

“We’re lost.”

Arya fought the urge to grind her teeth as her hands tightened their grip on the reins. “We’re  _not_  lost.”

He scoffed at that. Arya wanted very badly to turn around and to hit him; she was quick to anger lately, though she knew not why. Maybe it was the lack of sleep or the lack of food or maybe it was because Gendry was being  _really_  fucking insufferable for the past few days. Arya thought that her teeth would be stumps from how much she was grinding them with a clenched jaw.

“We  _are_  lost,” Gendry repeated, adamant. His breath was hot on Arya’s scalp and she was drinking up the warmth of his body. “We don’t know where we are! Why did you not take a map from Lord Tywin? It could have helped us.”

Arya takes in a deep breath, chest expanding as she drank in the air through her nose, all the while trying to calm her sudden irritation. It could have been at the fact Gendry was right, for once. She could have stolen a map from beneath Lord Tywin’s nose and he would have been none the wiser. Who would have suspected a base born, illiterate girl to have stolen from the high and might Lord Lannister? But it was too much of a risk; what if she had gotten caught? What then? Would she have lost one of her hands or her feet? Maybe an eye, if they had been feeling especially cruel. But Arya bit her tongue, not wanting to give Gendry the satisfaction that he could have been right.

But it was growing difficult to argue with him; she had not been facing him and her body was up against his. Thighs pressed together and his smell everywhere, like she was drowning in it. Sometimes, he placed his hands on his legs or let them lose, limp by his sides; other times, when he was feeling brave enough, Gendry placed his large, rough palms on the swell of Arya’s hips. Those times drove Arya especially mad because all her broken thoughts were about the  _feel_  of his hands, uninvited but begrudgingly welcome thoughts.

Silent whispers and gentle touches, an unkiss that was too soft for the harsh feel of Arya’s chapped lips. She would turn pink, like the red wine she once spilled on Sansa’s golden dress. Had she been prettier, softer like the silk her sister would don beneath the yellow sun, maybe she would have let herself delve into a gentle picture of what more those hands would feel like in other places.

But Arya would clench her jaw and box those girlish thoughts away in the back of her mind, breaking those star like thoughts into incomprehensible constellations that she could not fathom even if she had been a great astrologer. So Arya let herself be overcome with the bitterness that tasted like Dornish wine, the waves of wine leaving a terrible taste in her mouth and aches in her body. Oh and how her body  _ached._ It was worse than she could ever imagine, guts twisting and knotting themselves together so they turned blue from the lack of air as her hand strayed over the landscape of her tummy, the warmth of her dirty palm seeping in through the cloth of her borrowed tunic and giving some relief to the young girl.

At night, Arya wished for her mother, for Lady Catelyn’s sweet smiles that she would shower Sansa with. Arya had not been as privileged with such shows of gentle love as Sansa had been but she craved it all the same. Mayhaps her mother would have known of a way to soothe the aches of Arya’s old broken bones; her mother could have used her sewing needle to stitch Arya’s open wounds and fallen limbs back together so that she was once again Arya Stark. Arya’s body ached for things that she never knew, that never existed.

Arya gathered her scattered thoughts, bringing her mind back to the present and not lingering on the before or the  _what could happen_. She squared her shoulders and imagined herself as tall as Sansa or her mother, a proper lady who did not listen to lesser people and said the words they wanted, not the ones shoved down their throats in the shape of songs and poems.

“I would have been caught,” Arya replied, cold and calm. Like her father when he was Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, not her father. “And we are _not_  lost.” Arya shifted in the saddle, brushing her shoulder over Gendry’s shoulder, one leg going over the thick neck of the horse and resting awkwardly beside the other; Arya sat side saddled so as to let her be able to look him in the eyes. Her horse swayed from side to side, rolling her hips as Arya once again pushed aside all  _those_  thoughts that appeared to enjoy cropping up on her, letting her become a warm pink mess of fluttering eyes and moth like breaths.

“If we are not lost, then where are we?” he sounded tired and annoyed but Arya didn’t know if it was at her or at something else. She felt that sudden spike of irritation within her overflow, spilling from the brim of a cup as she glared at him. Hot Pie was too busy eating a piece of bread to care about their quarrel as he sipped from one of the water skins. He ate more than Gendry who was twice his size and who had more muscle than fat. Hot Pie was little more a boy than a man, unlike Gendry.

“I don’t  _know_ where we are  _exactly_ ,” Arya told him, letting out a huff of air that swept the strand of hair from her face, gentle and tickling against her skin. There was dirt trapped beneath her growing nails and she could not rid herself of all the layers of sweat, grime and earth that covered her. “But I  _do_  know that we are going north.”

Gendry’s face scrunched up at that, a frown on his face. His beard was wilder, thicker, and it made him look older than the age of ten and seven. His hair was longer too, curls twining around each other, like a messy and clumsy interlocking of fingers; the mop of ink black hair was long enough that he could sweep some behind his ear or tie it in a knot behind his head if he so wished, like what her father would do. Purple shadows clung beneath his eyes as if they could never be washed away, like how the dark blue of the night would grasp onto the orange and pink of a rising sun. Suddenly, Arya could not look into his gaze without her heart fluttering or her cheeks reddening.

“How do you even know we’re going north?” Gendry pondered a hand reaching up to brushed away the curls of his fringe from his eyes, strands clinging to his forehead. Arya bit her lip as she turned away, stretching a hand out, pointing to the thick trunk of an old tree with her index finger.

“See the moss?” Arya asked, trying to steady her voice. She had been so sure, strong like ice only a moment ago but it felt as if that strong part of her, the one that did not allow her to be young Arya Stark, was retreating away. It always seemed to do that whenever Gendry was too near to her. “See how it grows on one side of the tree? That means that direction is south.”

Gendry scoffed at her, making Arya turn back towards him. She felt it again: the sudden spike in annoyance – or maybe it was anger? Whatever it was, it made her dark and gloomy and  _hungry._ What she wouldn’t do for some sweet things amongst the other stale food Hot Pie had stolen from Harrenhal. She thought then of her sister and her love for lemon cakes.

“That’s stupid,” Gendry shot back, bringing his thick arms across his chest as he looked down at her. She didn’t like that, didn’t like being looked down. It had been happening to her all her life. Arya mimicked his action, trying to think of how strong and fierce her mother was. She probably looked absolutely ridiculous.

“It isn’t stupid!” Arya felt childish, like when Bran would tease her about looking odd in a dress. Arya liked wearing dresses but realised that dresses didn’t like  _her_. They made her look too thin and she would always trip over the hem. Arya would always wish she could carry herself with the same grace her mother could.

“You’re using  _moss_  as a means of a direction.” When he put it like that it did sound odd but Arya wouldn’t let him have the satisfaction of being right.

“Moss grows in the direction of the  _sun_ , stupid,” Arya huffed. She had read it in some book a thousand years ago when having found a corner in Winterfell’s library to hide away from her septa and her terrible dancing lessons.

“We can’t even  _see_ the sun,” Gendry shot back, stubborn as a bull. Arya wanted to hit him upside the head for being such an idiot. Arya pulled on the leather reins and unwound her stiff fingers as she slid off the horse without any warning. Her feet hit the ground, sending jolts of pain to shoot up her muscles but Arya ignored them, turning to face Gendry who was looking down on her still. Arya placed her hands on the growing swell of her hips and straightened herself.

“If you have any better ideas, please share with the rest of us,” Arya hissed, growing annoyed and bolder as she glared at the older boy. Hot Pie stopped his horse too, bringing his eyes to the two of them as he stopped his eating for once. He darted his gaze back and forth between his two companions before he took a slow and slightly fearful bite.

Gendry swung his leg from over the horse and dropped down onto the ground too, his hair falling in front of his eyes again. The horse seemed unsure of what to do with the lack of weight on its back, shifting from hoof to hoof, digging the grass up. There was a thickness in the muggy air as Arya refused to look away from Gendry. He stood a little in front of her, arms over his chest as he clenched his jaw. He stood much taller than her, a shadow with the blackest hair and the bluest eyes she had ever seen; there were smudges of dirt on his face from the nights they had been lying on the forest floor and his hair was a tangled mess of knots and pieces of grass. Though, Arya thought that she did not look as good as he did with her greasy hair that had grown too long for her; her dirty hands that she would use to wipe beneath her nose when she sniffled and sweat beneath her arms that made the tunic she wore stick to her in the most uncomfortable way. Arya certainly did not  _smell_  like a lady, much less look like one.

“We can go to a village, ask for help or directions,” Gendry decided almost with a nod of his head. Arya rolled her eyes at that, scoffing at his idea. That made him frown and she quickly made to explain herself.

“If we go to a village – if there’s even one around – the Mountain’s soldiers could be there or Lord Tywin’s; they might recognise us.”  _They might recognise me_  was what she meant to say. Only a few chances were what Arya had to see herself; in the rippling water or the rusted reflection of the steel they carried. Her chin was small and pointed, cheeks almost losing all their roundness with her features seeming smaller, more defined. Her lips were broken and chapped from the harsh touch of the wind; her eyes almost seemed too big for her face now: large grey eyes beneath long eyebrows.

Arya scarcely believed it was  _her_ that she saw; she looked older, more…  _womanly._  Despite how dry her lips had been they seemed to fit above the curve of her jaw now and her nose didn’t seem so uneven lying between her cheeks. She was not as pale as she had been; the paleness she once retained due to living beneath a buried sun had been stripped away, leaving her almost nearly golden and her freckles turning darker, more pronounced on her arms and nose. She seemed less awkward, less Arya Horseface.  _Mayhaps I am uglier than I used be_ , Arya thought sombrely.

“Well, it’s better than your stupid moss plan,” Gendry shot back. Arya pursed her lips and her chest heaved, bones bubbling in the anger that was filling her; she could not help it, despite how much Arya wanted to. Her hands curled themselves into fists and she dropped them to her sides, her foot stamping itself. It was childish of her to do so but Arya could not help it; the aches in her stomach were wrapping themselves in her body, ropes of pain hanging from her bones and muscles made it worse, flaring her irritation.

“It  _isn’t_ stupid!” Her voice had risen and Arya no longer cared if someone heard them.

“Yes, it is!” His voice was louder, too, now and Arya had not even noticed that she had stepped closer to him.  _Why can’t he just listen to me?_ Arya despaired at ever even trying to smash her way into that thick skull of his.

“Ugh! You’re so… you’re such…” Arya tried to find the word, racking her brain as she tried to remember one of the long, boring words that her Septa and Maester Luwin would correct her pronunciation of. Tumbling and tripping her tongue, like when she would trip on her dress while dancing, an endless sea of words that Gendry couldn’t possibly comprehend washed over her. Her hands flew up, as if she was trying to stay afloat in the sea of words but all she managed to do was grab onto her hair as her tongue tripped. “You’re such an ass!”

Arya never swore before because her mother would always sniff that it was unladylike to swear.  _But it’s also unladylike to sleep beside other men and to think about such wicked things about them, too_. Theon Greyjoy liked to swear, like to whisper to Robb about all the things he would do to the whores in the brothel. And Robb would laugh, would whisper things back to his friend too. Jon never liked to whisper about such things. Always frowned and looked away because he thought  _what if I was born from men whispering like they do?_  Arya was never allowed to know what they talked about, never allowed to know what went on between a man and woman behind closed doors, never allowed to know why men liked what they did so much, much less say Theon’s favourite word:  _fuck._ It was such a harsh and brute word and Arya could never think about saying it  _out loud._

So she glared at Gendry, hands knotted in her hair as her brain found itself yelling into oblivion, only to be met with silence. He frustrated her to no end and it only made it worse that she woke that morning to feel the gloom of a grey cloud hanging over her head. She could not think the sudden mood change should affect her but it did.

“And you’re – you’re such a child!” Gendry spat, the venom half-hearted as he loomed over her, darkening the cloud over her head that crackled lightning and thunder. Arya resisted the urge to stomp her foot again like a child – like what he thought her to be. Arya was no child; she was a woman and a killer and  _children aren’t meant to be this lonely._ She had no mother whose skirts she was supposed to cling to –  _neither had Jon and he grew up faster than anyone else._ Would she be a child if she had no mother and no father?

“I am not a child!” Arya yelped when she felt the worst thing that could happen: there was a catch in her throat, as if she was going to cry. Like a babe suckling still from her mother’s breast, wanting to cry and stomp her food. Arya would not cry, despite the need and the want to. So instead Arya threw her arms out, her hands flat against Gendry’s chest in a bid to push him, topple him over and make him fall into the dirt. But, of course, it did not work and all she managed to do was make her having to take a step back and steady herself. He was like a mountain, refusing to move; that only made her even more frustrated.

“You’re being childish!”

She kicked him in the shin but made sure that there wasn’t too much force behind it; even if he was stronger than her, she didn’t want to leave a bruise.

“You’re being stupid! We need to head north!”

“What we  _need_  is to have some proper food and rest!”

“No we don’t!” Arya could feel herself becoming desperate, feel herself coming undone by her emotions; they needed to get to Riverrun so that she could see her mother and her brother again. He wouldn’t understand; he was just a stupid bastard boy. It felt sour on her tongue to think that, whispers of a different boy who had been bastard echoing in her ear. Desperation filled what was left of her heart, trying to claw her way back to her family. “We need to get to Riverrun!”

“Why?! Why are you bringing us  _there_?! What help could we ever get  _there_?!”

The question hung in the air, like wet clothes being left to dry in the warm summer air; fat droplets falling from the heavy material as it oozed water. She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t let the sudden sadness and loneliness that grappled her, dragging her down into the very same water she had been trying to stay afloat. Faces swam before her made of seaweed and foam, shifting, changing like her mood as her hair flew around her, like whispers of her mother’s gentle cupping of her cheek.  _Why can’t you be a proper lady?_  The touch left a burn on her face and she wondered if this was what the Hound felt when he had gained his burns.

Hot Pie had been silent throughout the argument, watching and waiting with his fat face tinged pink and his lump mouth parted, eyes darting back and forth between Arya and Gendry, the two having not realised how close they were to each other then. Arya felt like he was everywhere and the sea was made of the shade of blue his eyes were. Her chest was heaving and so was his, their breaths washing over one another and their lips pursed. He glared down while she glared up, trying to raise her height so that they could stand equals; they were so close that Arya almost foolishly thought Gendry would grab her and kiss her. That’s what Sansa used to say that was what would happen when a man and a woman who loved one another; they would be red faced and their blood bubbled so much that they would be overwrought with desire for one another. Arya thought how absolutely  _ridiculous_  Sansa had been in thinking such things. And yet…

Her mouth was dry and her tongue was fat, unable to answer the  _why_  of Gendry’s question. Hot Pie still did not know who she was and Arya meant to keep it that way; to him, she was not Arya Stark of Winterfell, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Tully but to Hot Pie, she was a simple base born bastard girl.

So Arya Stark dropped her Stark like eyes and swallowed all the words she wanted to say and simply said: “I have family there.”

The words were soft and unlike her, causing the heat between Gendry and Arya to drop. Sadness kept her warm now, not hate or anger; sadness bloomed like a blue winter rose, petals brushing every corner there was to Arya and she felt foolish to want to cry. Arya was  _supposed_  to cry, she was supposed to be a wolf. And wolves don’t cry.

_Wolves are supposed to be strong, aren’t they?_

“Does this mean we can have a rest?” It was Hot Pie speaking then, bringing both Gendry and Arya’s attention from one another and to the other boy who had been watching the both of them; he almost had a hopeful look on his face. He made his way to get off the horse and onto the ground but Arya was quicker than him.

“No!” Arya had not meant to shout it but her voice wasn’t the only one that had said the word to stop the fat boy from jumping from the saddle; Gendry had yelled it in unison with Arya, his voice not as loud or high as her own. Arya’s turned back to Gendry, eyes wide as he met her gaze too, summer blue against winter grey and she couldn’t stop her cheeks turning as red as Sansa’s hair was.  _He said it with me, like what Jon used to do back in Winterfell._ Hot Pie was saying something, probably complaining again but Arya didn’t even hear the words that spilled past the fat boy’s lips. The grey and dark crackling cloud that hung over her was rolling back, slipping away and leaving her feeling light, less folded in on herself, leaving less creases on her soul.

It made the corners of her lips quirk upwards, a ghost of a smile flitting across her face. He’s smiling too, at least Arya think he is beneath that shaggy beard he had growing. Her sudden lift in her mood made Arya feel less burdened, as if she could actually breathe in the air around her and not taste the blood that lingered. Arya turned away from Gendry’s eyes, biting her li and ignoring the dryness in her throat.

“We… we should keep heading north,” Gendry murmured, turning away from Arya as she had done to him but there was a pink beneath the coarse hairs of his beard, wine over silk. A breathy reply of  _yes, we should_  bled past from Arya’s lips as her heart stuttered in her chest, tripping over the hem of her dress. Her hair tickled her and the broken threads of her tunic scraped against her skin, nails digging in as she pulled her body back up onto the horse, letting her own feet dangle loose by the horse’s sides as Gendry pulled himself back up too.

His hand brushed her inner thigh, a brush of a feather that sent Arya pink and warm in the face; she gathered the reins like they were her thoughts and tried to calm her pounding heart. Arya did not know why she felt herself becoming undone by his touches or his eyes or his smell; she thought of how her father would sometimes wraps his arms around her mother from behind and place a soft touch of his lips against the nape of her neck or against her cheek. Arya wanted to shake her head at how silly she was sounding; over thinking thoughts that were going to topple on top of one another and bury her beneath.

Arya urged the horse forward with her thighs trapped between Gendry’s, snapping at Hot Pie to stop eating and to hurry up. Gendry’s hands were on her hips again, warm and light as her eyes tried to stay focused on what was before her and not let her thoughts wander on  _whom_  was sitting behind her, pressed up one another with only so very few layers of clothes separating touching skin. Her cheeks felt as if a fire had been lit and the flames were getting out of control, rolling over beneath her skin.

Arya felt like hitting herself as she bit the inside of her cheek, rolling it between her teeth as a means to curb her hunger and distract her mind from – from –

 _Oh, I defiantly sound like Sansa now!_  Arya despaired, wanting to wring her hands and sigh.

How on earth was she going to survive if the thoughts that invaded her were going to drive Arya mad?

* * *

 

Arya knew she was dreaming again.

It seemed that she could tell now because when she dreamed, the world didn’t seem so dark and cruel around, a lustre glow surrounding Arya like she was being dipped in the water of the moon’s light. She was in a gown that seemed to be made of morning blue and fog, wispy and gathering around her ankles in soft kisses of lovers’ lips. Her hair swirled around her in brown curls, falling from thick braids as she spun in her bare feet, like a maiden of the forest.

Snow surrounded her and she wished it was her Snow, warm and smiling as he gathered her up to kiss her forehead and call her little sister. But there were walls beneath, a castle built from snow and wind, dew drops and red berries with the robin’s red breast chirping from the highest tower of her cold fortress. But Arya did not feel cold; her skin was blue and white like the marks of winter’s kiss left when brushing wind against skin for trying to find some pleasure with her.

Her breath swirled, fingers of the mist cupping her cheek as wet tears ran down her face, freezing before they could reach her lips. The hall was empty and yet she could see faces in the shadows; blue eyes, grey eyes, brown eyes and green eyes. There were other eyes of purple, of black and of green. Eyes she knew, eyes she didn’t. Her father and her mother; Robb and Jon, Bran, Rickon and Sansa. Her father tried to speak but blood kept pouring from his mouth, dripping onto the snow like fresh red rubies. There were a gash across his neck from where he had been beheaded and he could not speak without blood gushing from the wound and from his mouth. Even his tears were red. Ned tried to reach out with a tight skinned hand but his body fell apart into ash before he could touch her.

There were hands on her, some turning to ash, others gripping at her dress and pulling her hair from their braids; she could not see, she could not breathe as the tore away her skirts and her bodice, leaving her bare breasted. Her breasts were womanly, grown, the teats hard and pink as her arms went over her chest to hide her nakedness from the eyes that consumed her. They cooed and laughed, hissing sweet things in her ears as nails scraped against her skin; she shivered beneath the action, finding it to be quite a nice feeling. Arya felt half horrified, half drunk on curiosity and the feel of the hands on her that began to melt away.

Instead of the half burning, half pleasurable trails left by nails dragging across her back and arms, there was the brush of fingers over her skin. Hot breaths on her skin and Arya feels too warm beneath her own skin, not even the snow can cool her down. The blueness of her pale skin receded as the hands on her body melted away to a single pair, rough and calloused. There were lips on her neck, on the curve of her shoulder as fingers wrapped around her hands she had covering her growing breasts. Knuckles rubbed against her collarbone as she was turned around, her arms unwinding and leaving her bare and naked as her Name Day.

Lips were on hers, harsh but gentle with teeth knocking. Arya had never kissed someone let alone in such a way; her arms were trapped and her eyes were closed but there was something fluttering in her stomach, heart pounding as she bled small, girlish sighs past her lips, almost drunk with red cheeks and a light head. Tongues darting back and forth, Arya could not stop the moan that escaped from being buried deep within. There was an ache between her legs, throbbing and making it difficult to concentrate on her lover’s lips but it was a sweet hurt; pooling and making her want, but want for what? Arya could feel hands in her hair, feeling the silky strands as she could not stop herself from grabbing the flesh of her lover’s bottom lip between her teeth, the taste of blood seeping into her mouth and exploding on her taste buds. She heard a groan – was it her? Did Arya make such a noise?

Her breaths were becoming shallow pants as she rubbed her thighs together, trying to soothe the ache at the junction that lay below her stomach, the wetness there making her slick. Was it her moonblood? Had she bled?  _No,_ Arya managed to think as her fingers gripped at the locks of hair that lay atop of his head.  _This does not hurt as much._ But could she burst from so much want and need? Her mouth was freed, feeling swollen and wet, as wet kisses were dotted on her neck, leaving bruises that felt sweet. A thumb flicked over her teat and Arya moaned, her knees buckling; she was becoming undone, becoming a wet, warm and pink mess beneath these touches that had wandered the landscape of her unexplored body.

It felt so very wicked that it felt good; she bit her lip as she tried to open her eyes and catch a glimpse of who made her feel so very –

A gasp tore its way through Arya’s throat as a tongue swirled over her hardened teat, wet and warm. Her back arched as another moan left her, filling her lover’s mouth with the pale flesh of her breast. Teeth nipped at the sensitive area, making her writhe and cry.  _I shouldn’t be feeling like this. It’s wrong. It’s wrong._ But Arya didn’t care at that point; all her Septa’s words about horrible acts and vile desires were grains of sand lost in the wind. She was thread being pulled free, hands tugging at spots that made her moan and gasp and whisper. She thought of all those times she was forced to kneel before the Maiden with her sister, reciting prayers with clasped hands and dry lips. Prayer had seemed so dull but now, prayers stuttered past her lips and she could hear his voice, as if she was a god being worshipped. If this was what religion was, Arya would devote her life to it.

She heard her name in whispers as a hand, one that did not belong to her, was smoothing over the inside of her thigh; the lips at her breast let her free, Arya tugging at the fistful of hair in her hand to bring the lips back up to her. She liked it, oh, how she liked the feel of lips dancing with hers and his naked body up against hers. Her nakedness was something forgotten and she could not dispel the darkness and see who she kissed. The hand at her thigh trailed up from her thigh at an agonising pace, the pad of her lover’s thumb flicking out over near  _that_ spot but not touching it; Arya was on her back though she knew not how she had got there, not that she cared. The taste of him filled her, his tongue brushing against hers as her back arched, her hard nipples flush against his thick chest.

The snow was like a featherbed beneath her, sticking to her boiling skin and not fizzing away. Arya couldn’t stop her chest heaving from her panting, lips sore and nails scraping down his back. She was murmuring his name, over and over again in a spiral of whispers and near shouting as he finally cupped the mound between her legs, wet droplets clinging to the hair there like dew on grass in the early morning; Arya could not stop the gasp as she felt the hand there, wanting friction to bring some sort pleasure through her.

Arya was drowning, drowning in the touches she had never felt, in the taste of him, drowning in fire lit in her. Arya remembered how her Septa said that a woman’s job was to lie with her lord husband and to give him heirs but she had never said how it would make Arya feel so good. Arya clawed her way through the darkness, eyes finally opening as she felt him slid a single finger beneath her folds, making Arya let out a cry as her eyes tried to find something, anything.

Through the spikes of pleasure that racked her body as he repeated the action, Arya made out thick black hair, curling around his ears and his neck. Arya’s hands were lost in the sea of black locks, wrapping her fingers around the strands as he body writhed, trying to find something to hold onto; thick shoulders with muscles rolling beneath, skin touched by the sun, Arya was truly lost. There was something tight in her stomach, coiling and wrapping around and around as her toes curled.

 _Oh!_ She kept gasping, mouth falling open to form a plump  _o_ shape as she could feel herself coming closer and closer –  _but to what?_  Her eyelashes brushed against above her scarlet cheeks, like raven’s feathers falling onto snow. Her hair fell around her like leaves on the ground, sticking to her sweaty skin. She could see, could see the coarse black hair coating the jaw, the lips she had been kissing with a single bead of blood growing from where she had nipped the skin with her teeth. He was saying her name over and over:  _Arya, Arya, Arya._ Just like she was saying his; thought she couldn’t tell for the words were not reaching her ears. Her hand cupped his cheek, wanting to kiss him again.

His eyes, _his eyes_ –

Blue, like ice. Arya stared at them before she realised. His name continued to spill out of her, water over rocks. Knots of his hair and knots in her stomach as her grey eyes widened. It was wrong,  _this_  was wrong; she couldn’t,  _shouldn’t_  but she was and it felt better than anything she had ever felt.  _No, no, no_ , Arya tried to shout but it didn’t help. All she could to was let his name tumble out of her.

The knots in her stomach tightened and Arya closed her eyes.

And she shouted his name, this time hearing it. 

* * *

 

Arya’s head snapped up too quickly for her and it ended up whacking against the trunk of the tree she was leaning against. The pain shot through her skull and Arya let out a hiss through her teeth, handing reaching up to the sudden sore spot. Her neck was stiff from her chin having fallen onto her chest and there was an ache in her back from her awkward position.  _I must have fallen asleep while on watch._

Arya clutched at her chest, red face, feeling both embarrassment and shock at what she had dreamt; her knees curled themselves up but Arya could feel the wetness in her small clothes, her face aflame with shame. It was wrong and sick, she thought, to think such things! Her septa or her mother might have been disgusted had she told what had transpired in her accidental fall into sleep; her heart raced in her chest as her hand clutched the tunic, fisting it up in her palm as a hand went to her mouth to stop her heavy breathing. Her feet were locked over one another as she could feel herself become overwhelmed.

She had no idea what even happened or why she felt the way she did; whatever sleep that had drifted down on top her seemed to have fled away from her panic. Her knees were weak and her mouth was dry; Arya felt wrong, felt like there was a layer of dirt on her that could not be washed off. Was there something wrong with her?

What was she doing? Thinking such things about someone who she thought her to be her close friend? Arya couldn’t believe herself, couldn’t believe she would even think such things. Her hair fell around her like a curtain covering her rose red cheeks as her emotions began to overflow, tears wanting to fall over onto her cheeks, to soothe her parched throat.

A body stirred beside Arya, causing her wide eyes to flicker towards the sleeping mass; he was lying on his back, one hand resting lazily on his stomach as the other cradled the back of his head. He was turning, mouth parted; with his eyes fluttering as he turned so that he was facing her, Arya feared for a moment that he meant to wake up, witness her in her distressed form and would ask her what was wrong. But he stayed asleep, stayed unaware of what has happening.

Arya could only stare at Gendry’s sleeping form, watching how the corner of his lip twitched beneath his shaggy beard; her heart was jumping and her face turned even redder as she could not find it in her to pull her eyes away from him. Arya’s fingers twitched, moving away from where she had placed them up against her lips –  _lips I imagined Gendry kissing._ It couldn’t have meant anything; he was her friend and – and so what if he was the only person she could trust, the only person she thought of as her friend? So what if he was handsome and made her heart stutter in her chest?  _So what if he makes me feel like Arya Stark and not some stupid orphan girl?_ Arya turned away from him, bringing herself to her feet in hopes of finding some water left in the water skin that was still in the sack of food slung over the back of Hot Pie’s horse that was growing smaller and smaller as the days passed by them.

The leaves crunched beneath her shoes, crackling as she found the horse, hand grabbing the leather of the water skin and she took it in her grasp, uncorking it and bringing it to her lips; the water spilled down her dry throat, soothing the ache as it washed over her tongue and seemed to awaken her mind even more. Arya tried to rid her mind of all those thoughts that filled her from head to toe.

She stood there, trying to regain her confidence; Arya had never felt so unnerved by her own thoughts, by what her mind had let know what she truly felt. Arya felt the fire of shame licking her bones as she tried to calm her mind, tried to think logically; maybe she was just becoming delusional from the lack of food and water and the cramps that haunted her every waking moment. She was embarrassed, there was no denying that, and Arya wanted nothing more than to climb in the darkest hole that she could find and waste away.

“Arya?”

His voice was a whisper, hoarse and thick from sleep; Arya turned around to see that he was blinking away the sleep that veiled his bleary eyes, eyelashes fluttering as he made his way to sit up. Arya couldn’t even look at him without freezing up, muscles stiffening as she kept remembering. _No, I have to put those thoughts away._  She could not let herself retreat inside, to become an embarrassing mess of a girl over one stupid, silly thing.

“I’m… I’m fine,” it was a lie and her voice was shaking, revealing how unnerved she as she turned away, placing the water skin back into the bag. They would have to start scouring for food soon lest they would want to starve; Arya had eaten enough bugs and rats that she no longer cared about what she tore her teeth into, just as long as it wasn’t going to kill her. Arya was alert then, alert to Gendry and the fact his half opened eyes thick with sleep were trained on her.

Part of her wanted to stay far away from him after all those niggling thoughts kept cropping up but Arya was determined to not let it get to her.  _I am a wolf and wolves do not doubt their selves._ So Arya willed her feet back to where she had once been sitting before having fall into the warm arms of sleep. She could not,  _would_  not think about how wicked and teasing her mind had been and instead let herself set her body down on the ground, lying her head back as she crossed her ankles so that Arya could gaze at the twinkling gleam of stars that were spotted through the night and could be seen through gaps in the blanket of the trees. Gendry stayed on his side, being able to gaze at her without turning his head. Arya was so close that she could feel the warmth of his body and his breath on the curve of her neck.

“What family do you have in Riverrun?” the question came out of nowhere, surprising Arya and making her blink, head turning sideways so that they were face to face, close but not so close that they might accidentally knock heads.  _Or lips_. One arm was bent beneath his head, supported it like a pillow while the other lay draped over one side of his waist, hand resting on his stomach. Arya mimicked his position, turning and bending her knees so that they were up against his.

Suddenly, Arya remembered all those times when she would sneak into Bran’s chambers or Jon’s and would whisper to them in the dark, about everything and anything. Bran would tell her the scary stories that she wouldn’t be allowed to hear because she was a lady and ladies only liked poems and songs about love. Arya would tell Jon about how horrible her Septa and Sansa were to her, and how she tried her best at needlework but it never seemed good enough, not for them. Then Jon would kiss her forehead, telling her that  _sometimes the best is all we can give and it’s up to others to accept it._

Arya stayed unsure of what to tell Gendry for a moment, biting her lip and rolling the flesh between her teeth as her hand reached up to flick a strand of hair that curled around the top of her cheek bone away.

“Lord Hoster Tully, my grandfather – that’s my mother’s father – he’s the lord there,” Arya explained, keeping her voice little above a whisper so only Gendry could hear it. Right now it seemed that there was nothing else that existed, that there was a blanket over the two of them as they shared secrets. “My mother and my brother, Robb, they should be there; and my uncle, the Blackfish.”

Gendry scrunched his nose up, wrinkling. “Why is he called the Blackfish?”

“His name isn’t actually the Blackfish,” Arya answered, racking her memory of her uncle that was a known warrior throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Though she had never had the pleasure of meeting her uncle, Arya had an admiration for him; he had gone against tradition, gone against his lord brother and refused to ever marry, something Arya wished that she could do. “His real name is Brynden; he’s only called that because he refused Lord Hoster, his brother, and his wishes for the Blackfish to marry. They used to call him the black goat of the Tullys’ so he took the name Blackfish because the Tully sigil is a fish.”

Gendry let out a breathy laugh at that. It made Arya’s lips quirk upwards too. Gendry shifted, his knees knocking against hers and suddenly, he was closer to her. His face was washed in the silver water dripping from the moon; Arya could truly see how blue his eyes were and could count the pale freckles splattered on his skin if she so wished.  _Thirteen._ “All you lords an’ ladies; playing little games with one another because you have nothing better to be doing.”

“They aren’t games.” Arya reached out and pinched Gendry’s arm as he said that, frowning at his words. He only chuckled at her. Her father had never played games when it came to such things; but it didn’t matter because he ended up dying anyway.  _If only I had gotten to him, I could have killed the king and the queen and Ser Illyn before anyone could stop me._ Even now to think of him hurt. “The war that’s happening… it isn’t a game. My brother isn’t a stupid silly boy.”

“Wars happen because noble people get bored and like to see what happens when they send low borns to the sword,” Gendry retorted with a sharpness to his voice. “Wars start because lords an’ ladies fight with each other but it’s always people like me who bleed.”

 _People like me_ , he had said; people who weren’t born in castles but in hovels, people who didn’t wear silks and fine leathers and people who would be lucky if they managed to eat fresh meat. But he was wrong; her father had bled, her grandfather Rickard had bled with her uncle Brandon when they rode south to confront the Mad King. Every single person, highborn or lowborn, from Princes to prisoners, in the Kingdom made the seas and the rivers turn red all because Rhaegar Targaryen wanted Lyanna Stark. An old tale that left scars that would never heal.

“Sometimes there’s no choice,” Arya replied, her voice meek and shy. Robb was at war because the people who murdered their father sat in fine halls while Eddard Stark was left to rot. Arya did not want to think about such a thing and dispelled it from her mind.

“Like when?” Another question that Arya had the answer to; Arya tried to think of Robb, of how he must be feeling. A boy –  _no, a man now_  – leading armies and the Lord of Winterfell;  _King in the North_ , they called him. But put a crown on someone’s head and it doesn’t make you a king. Robert Baratheon had been no true king: he was a fat oaf who liked to drink and liked his women more than caring for the people and Joffrey Baratheon was no king, he was a prick and the person who killed her father. But Robb, Robb would be better; her brother would be a good king, a kind and just king. And she wondered if he ever cut himself on the crown they placed on his head.

“My brother is fighting because they killed my father,” she told him, eyes misting over, everything fading away to the last day she had last seen her brother with snowflakes melting in his auburn curls as he hugged her goodbye. He had been clean shaven and the crown he had was of fiery hair. “We’re going to get to Riverrun and – and I’m going to see my family again and you can help make him swords and I’ll fight like a proper soldier and kill the men who hurt my family.”

He didn’t respond to that, maybe he didn’t know  _how_  to respond to her harsh words, tongue scrunched up caught on words that couldn’t find a way past his lips. She wouldn’t know what to say either and felt the blood rush to beneath her cheeks in embarrassment; Arya felt like Sansa with how much she blushed, especially since it was mostly around Gendry.

“They probably won’t recognise you,” he finally said, voice low and almost soothing the anger and rage inside of Arya. She smiled at that, thinking at how her mother would feint at the sight of Arya’s chopped hair and dirtied clothes with her long nails and the dried in blood.

“I wasn’t any better back in Winterfell,” Arya admitted, sound wistful at the memories. “I would hate going to my lessons and I was terrible at dancing and singing and sewing. My sister was always a better lady than me.”  _Sansa was better than me at everything except for horse riding and numbers._ “I was the best at horse riding and my mother always used to say that I would have been a better boy than a girl.”

It was true; she would run in, red faced and out of breath with dirt streaked across the bridge of her nose and her dress covered in mud; sometimes she would have wildflowers clasped in her small dirty hand in hopes of giving it to her mother. How her mother would sigh and would send Arya to be cleaned and scrubbed and Arya never knew what happened to the wildflowers. Her father always kept them, would kiss her forehead no matter if it was covered in dirt or sweat and thank her for the handful of flowers, earth still clinging to the roots. Jon would always make sure to keep whatever flowers she had picked up in a vase and would keep them at his bedside until they were brown and dead, leaves like a puddle at the base.

“Well, you don’t look like a boy,” he snorted, his lips tilted upwards as he listened. He was impossibly close but Arya did not care because it made her feel warm and not as scared that Vargo Hoat would jump from the bushes and kill them.

“Neither do you,” Arya shot back as she reached out before even thinking; she grasped a lock of black hair between the pad of her index finger and her thumb, at wonder almost from how soft it felt. His beard scratched at her skin but Arya desperately tried to keep her thoughts intact. “Your hair is longer now. I could – I could cut it for you, if you want.”

Arya snatched her hand back again, leaving it to rest beneath her own burning cheek; she had not meant to say that but the words came falling past the tip of her tongue without her realising it. Arya shouted at herself to take them back, to tell him that she would lend him the dagger at her belt so he could do it himself and that she was only jesting with him.

“Alright,” Gendry spoke, drawing her from her mind and her attention back to him. “You should cut your hair too. You… you look like a girl.”

“I  _am_ a girl,” Arya defended reaching a hand up to finger her limp loose locks that hung around her. What she would not give to dunk her entire body in hot water and scrub herself clean of everything. Gendry shifted again and coughed, clearing his throat.

“I know but… but you look like a proper girl, now,” he explained, rushing over his words. “Not a  _proper_  girl like a lady but – but an  _actual_  girl.”

“Oh,” was all Arya could say as she continued to let her hand wander down the strands of her hair. Short hair was practical but… part of her wanted long hair, to put it into the braids that she liked to wear, like what Sansa used to have in her auburn curls. Arya’s hair was never as pretty as Sansa’s had been but she had liked it, like the soft curls near the ends and the wisps around her hairline that would fall around her.

Part of her had hoped to grow her hair out from the mess it had been reduced to thanks to Yoren’s hacking away at the strands all those months ago. She pursed her lips, thinking how stupid she sounded. She couldn’t let her fancies and wants to do away with practicality.

“I’ll do it soon, when it’s safe.” But when was it going to be safe? A day from now? A week? A month? Would this be their life, wandering around the Riverlands with Arya trying to get back to her family?  _No,_ Arya decided,  _I have to be strong. I have to be a wolf._ A yawn broke through her, hand falling to place itself before her mouth like she had been taught to do since she was but a babe. The tiredness was creeping back again and Arya wished for sleep.

“I’ll take watch,” Gendry told her, turning back to pull himself up so that he was in seating position, back against the thick trunk of the tree like she had been not long ago. Arya almost thought to argue and tell him that she was fine but her eyes were too heavy and it was difficult to stay awake. So, Arya let him try to keep his eyes open as she closed her own, the darkness so comforting and familiar. She only hoped that she would not dream such a dream again.

“Gendry?”

Her voice was lower than a whisper, teeth gnawing on her lip as she squeezed her eyes shut.  _He’s so warm._ Arya heard him mutter a  _yes?_ And she paused, not knowing what to say; she didn’t even know why she had spoken his name; maybe it was to check if he was still there beside her. Her heard skipped a beat beneath her ribs as she shuffled herself closer to him, almost curling herself up at his side.

“Good night.”

There was silence for a moment.

“Good night, Arya.”

And she slept, dreamless.

 


	14. Maiden and Smith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amidst the war ravaging the land of Westeros, a lone Stark must find her way home, to her true family.
> 
> And yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I do not own any of the characters, places or story lines (unless stated otherwise) mentioned in the work; they all belong to their owner: G.R.R Martin  
> \- Mostly original dialogue.  
> \- A work of fiction previously known as "The Bull and the Wolf."  
> \- comments are very much appreciated!  
> \- for any more information, check out my profile!

**_Chapter Fourteen._ **

Arya had never been so hungry in her entire life.

When she had been home in Winterfell, Arya never knew what it felt like or meant to have an empty stomach; she was able to be provided plentiful dinners and there were many feasts. And even if she had been feeling a hungry, she would sneak into the kitchens, stealing away a few apples and maybe a piece of cake if she was feeling daring enough. Sometimes Bran would sneak by her side as they used Rickon as a distraction. Such memories were golden after so long, her life back then seeming so much _more_ than it was when she had not known any other way of living.

Arya recalled how if her food was cold she would always scrunch her nose up at it, pushing it away from her. More often than not, Bran followed her example and Rickon followed _his_ example. She almost wanted to laugh bitterly at how young and stupid she had been back then, taking everything she had for granted and never once thinking about others. What Arya would give now for even a cold piece of meat – it would not even have to be cooked properly for her to eat it; she was so hungry she would have been just about ready to eat it raw.

But it had been months since she saw a sliver of cooked meat – when Arya had been living on the streets of King’s Landing pigeons and rats were her main source of food, often trading it in and getting money to something to eat. At times, she had been forced to drink the murky water. But all Arya could do was close her eyes and try not to breathe in the smell as she toppled the water over her tongue and down her throat. It was during those weeks that Arya also had her first taste of the real world, away from her fine silks and supple leather shoes, away from hot baths and the safety of her father.

She had been frightened, there was no denying it, as she made her way throw streets and filth, sleeping on cobble stones or doorways where there was even a slightest bit of warmth. In King’s Landing, during the day it was frightfully hot especially for Arya who had been used to the cold in her bones for her entire life. She sat in her sweat and sometimes her own filth, the saltiness sticking to her chapped lips as her skin burned red and peeled away so that Arya looked something terrible.

But soon, pigeon and rat began to taste as good – if not _better_ – than chicken or beef; the ale she was sometimes given in exchange was watered down and tasted bitter, burning like fire down her throat and pooling in her belly, but it burned away her thirst and left her feeling sleepy, heavy headed and eyes half closed. When she drank too much of the drink, it made her vision fuzzy, like cotton wool was veiled over her eyes and the world swayed beneath her, cobble stones turning slippery and soft beneath her footsteps.

There were more than enough eyes that lingered on Arya when she would wander through the streets, her thin tunic sticking to her skin, dark patches beneath her arms and around her neck line, the braids that had been so carefully done before were uneven, thin strands like fingers curling around her neck and wisps falling around her sweaty hairline. She thought about cutting the greasy and stringy strands then but her heart broke at the thought, feeling as if it were one of the last things that connected her to Arya Stark, like needle through cloth, sewing pieces together in an uneven mess. Her stitching overseen by Septa Mordane, thick and fat, the tip of the thin metal pricking her finger and leaving red flowers beside her stitched ones.

When she had travelled with Yoren and the other members of their group towards the Wall and she towards Winterfell, there were many a night when she would snack on rabbit and hare, drinking ill tasting water as she slept beside men she did not know, stealing their warmth from them curled into a small ball on her side, clasping her hands together in a mocking prayer. As they ventured north towards the Riverlands, it had gotten colder and Arya was given another tunic that was far too big for her and smelt of piss and sweat. That that she would have told Yoren for he might have been inclined to beat her should she have complained to him even the tiniest bit.

But now, as she sat with her stomach as empty as the water skin at her hip, Arya found herself losing her mind from the thirst that clung to her mouth and to her throat. Her mind was fuzzy, as if it were made entirely out of wool and cloth. Her hands were too stiff, curling and the skin becoming rough to the touch with her thighs sore and red. It was becoming far too difficult to walk with her feet screaming in agony every time she willed her body to move forward. It _hurt_ , like everything else did. Her hands, her stomach, her head and her heart seemed to have plunged all together into the deepest hell where there was no coming back. When it was not her hands, it was her back; when it wasn’t her stomach, it was her neck. A never ending cycle of pain that only went up or down, around and around and around Arya’s mind as she tried to think of better things.

She tries to remember the taste of lemoncakes that Sansa loved to eat after every dinner, licking the sweet sticky frosting off the tips of her pale fingers. Jon bringing her horse around the yard when Harwin would let him, telling her silly jokes and saying she was the best rider in all the Seven Kingdoms. The Dothraki believe that their horses are what hold up the foundations of the world and he who cannot ride a horse, cannot lead. And, yet, and yet, she sat on the horse, with no Harwin and defiantly no Jon, with her mouth too dry and her hands too stiff. Arya didn’t feel like a Princess, she had no castle, no silks and furs. She didn’t have long pretty hair – _Sansa is the proper princess not me –_ and she certainly felt no beauty beneath the dirt and sweat on her body.

Each day was a gruelling task laid before them; their source of food growing smaller and smaller, the unfamiliarity of their surroundings – _are you sure you know where we are?_ Gendry had asked her and she could only tell him _trust me_ – and the constant silence that surrounded all three of them that was only broken by Hot Pie’s grumbling. Arya couldn’t talk because her mouth felt so dry and terrible, tongue too fat to use for words and she felt weak, bones stretched too far for her to use and mind sometimes stuck on the sight of a particularly green tree or a limping flower with its stem broken. It was hard to think when her mouth was too dry and her stomach too empty, cramping and collapsing in on itself.

She suffered in silence, sipping on water in hopes to cure the pain in the depths of her stomach and the itchiness of her throat. The skin on her hands were red and rough, stiff as she uncurled them with the half-moon crescent graves in her palm from where her nails had been digging themselves into.  Days melted away into one another, the waxing moon dripping from the sky with the sun in its place. The Riverlands seemed to have no end, no horizon for them to see in a sea of endless green and brown.

Sometimes, at night when she would be taking watch, Arya would clasp her hands together, knots of fingers tying themselves together as she would take a shuddering breath and pray to the gods _take me home. Take me to Robb and to Mother._ But every day, when they would wake, break their fast and set out on their never ending journey, there would be no sign of Riverrun or her father’s men, nor any sign of her Grandfather’s men either. Gendry asked her _what if no one believes you?_ And, though she had not thought of that before, causing a new worry to be planted, she shook her head and whispered back _of course they’d believe me; I look like my father._ And Jon, she wanted to say. But he didn’t know who that was. Arya wished she could tell Gendry all about Jon, how he was kind and seemed to understand better than any of her true born siblings.

It was on the second week of their travelling when Arya spotted it; hidden from prying eyes in the depths of the woods and buried by the thick trunks of trees the cottage stood, thick grey smoke curling up from it and towards the sky, the air stained and thick with the putrid smell that Arya had learned to become accustomed to. She crouched barefoot on the ground, peering through the bushes with her toes digging themselves into the grass and dirt. _Clever girls go barefoot,_ Jaqen had told her and Arya fancied herself to be very clever; she would have had to be if she wanted to survive.

The cottage was a desolate place, made up of a broken down door, quenched out fires and blood staining the outside walls and grass. There was only silence and the wind to be heard and Arya bit her lip; if the place was truly empty it could serve as a refuge for her and her companions, a place to gain their rest and to see if there was any chance of them happening on some food. Arya stomach roared out at the thought and she moistened her chapped and dried lips. The thatched roof looked to be intact and the walls looked sturdy enough, possibly giving them shelter from the harsh coldness and rain of the night. Not that Arya had been cold during the night of late. She turned red at the memory of waking up with her legs tangled with Gendry’s and his arm wrapped around her.

Arya had not said anything to him and instead managed to slip from his grip, face beet red and her heart pounding in her chest. _Ba bump._ She could still remember how he smelt and how warm he was. _Ba bump._ Arya had even managed to throw her arm around his chest, head just ghosting on his shoulder. It had been an embarrassing sight to wake up to, tangled in his arms and surrounded by him; his smell, his touch and his warmth was all that occupied her thoughts then, replacing the ones of hunger and of dehydration. She had _liked_ it too and had seemed to be unconsciously going out of her way to make sure that she slept closer to Gendry, waking up some mornings to have herself wrapped up in him.

Arya shook her head, scattering all such thoughts about _him_ from her mind and instead crept back away from the house, eyes narrowing as she searched for any sign that a soul still lingered in such a grave site. She stayed on the balls of her feet, ignoring the tickling of the grass against her skin and quickly rushed back to where Gendry and Hot Pie were waiting. It had been Gendry who spotted the smoke rising and it was Arya who went to investigate; Gendry had wanted to go as well but Arya made her case that he was terrible at sneaking and being quiet.

“Fine,” he relented finally as he watched Arya slip her shoes off of one foot. “But if you need help, bark like a dog.”

Arya had snorted at that, slipping the other shoe off and handing them to Gendry to hold. “That’s stupid; if I need help, I’ll shout ‘help’.”

Arya brushed aside the fingers of the bushes, shaking her head from left to right in a bid to free her knotted and tangled hair from the twigs and leaves that clung to the strands. She could hear the snickering and snorting of the horses as she made her way back to Gendry and Hot Pie. Her bare feet were covered in the thin, broken blades of dew slick grass and dirt; the air was muggy and warm, a thin sheet of sweat covering her body and causing her clothes to stick to her back, dark patches around her neck and under her arms. Arya had half a mind to strip herself of her clothes to cool herself down but knew that it was not the time to do it especially when she was the only girl. How she wished that she could bathe, to have cool water run over her grimy skin and to duck her head beneath a sea of fresh water.

Hot Pie was sitting on the ground, his sausage like fingers wrapping around the grass blades, choking them and ripping them from the ground; his fat face was crestfallen, paler than usual and his shoulders were slumped. His sword lay beside him, forgotten and almost rusting from the lack of use. His hair stuck to his forehead and there was a frown on his lumpy lips.

Gendry was on his feet, hand running along the thick neck of the horse, untangling the coarse hair of its mane along the spine; he had pushed the sleeves of his tunic up along his thick forearm, brandishing the muscles beneath the tanned skin. Her shoes dangled from their laces at his waist, the strings tied together in a small knot. A ray of golden sunlight spilled through the canopy of the blanket of tree leaves and was caught on Gendry’s hair, turning the black mess of curls almost purple. His beard was wild and fierce, almost hiding the grim line of his mouth, lips chapped and dry.

Gendry turned at hearing Arya’s approach, blue eyes meeting hers as Hot Pie turned his head up, struggling to get to his feet as Arya moved to push the sleeves of Gendry’s tunic that he had given her up her arms, relishing at the feel of a cool breeze feathering over her pale skin, the sweat at the base of her neck feeling cooled and washing over her body. She had rolled the ends of her breeches up to her ankles lest she would end up tripping over them.

“Well?” Gendry asked her stepping away from the snorting horse to stand closer to her, wrapping his arms across his thick chest; Hot Pie wrung his hands in front of his fat belly, his piggy eyes watching her as he chewed on his lip. Arya looked to Gendry as he spoke.

“I didn’t see anyone,” she informed her companions, brushing a thick lock of her greasy hair behind her ear to lock it in place; it was a habit that she had picked up as well as biting her lip or her nails. “The house looks empty.”

Gendry cocked an eyebrow at that; he was hesitant, Arya knew that, and she was too. The Riverlands were being razed to the ground, blood seeping into soil and river with all kinds of men to be found who belonged to Lannister, Tully and Stark alike though she had not seen any of her father’s men throughout her journey.

“It ‘looked’ empty?” Gendry replied, doubtful and unsure of her findings. “How do you know there isn’t anyone hiding there?”

“There isn’t; someone tried to burn it down. If someone is hiding, they’re doing it really well and they wouldn’t be strong enough to fight us off,” Arya frowned, looking back over her shoulder to where the damaged corpse of the house laid, a smoking and smouldering ruin of day old fires all that was left. Arya did not know if she should mention that there had been blood, too, splattered like innocent pain across the stone walls. _Lannister red,_ Arya had then remarked to herself as her eyes spied turned over soil not far from the cottage, wide enough for a body to be laid. Whoever had owned the place, they were long since dead. _Sleeping and eating where a dead man once did,_ Arya wondered, almost knowing that it would bring them ill luck to trespass on such a place. Still, it was better than the alternative of starving to death.

“Who do you think did it?” Gendry said aloud, eyes glazing past over her. “Lannister men or the Mountain’s?” _What does it matter?_ Arya wanted to snap back. _It does not matter who did the deed, all that matters is that it was done. War is where the monster in us comes out._ But Arya bit her tongue, not wanting to let the words spill past her lips.

“It ain’t right,” Hot Pie piped up, his voice squeaky and full of fear. _So, he is a craven after all._ “What if soldiers come back?”

Arya lifted her eyebrows up at that, crossing her arms across her chest beneath her breasts, cocking her head to the side. “Why would they come back? Mayhaps to rekindle the burnt out fires? Don’t be stupid.” He turned a blotchy pink at that. “Besides, we need food since we have none left.”

Hot Pie turned even redder, looking like a pig with his face flushed. Out of all of them, Hot Pie had eaten most, even more so than Gendry, and the last thing Arya had eaten was a handful of berries that she found and quickly tucked into them, her stomach a painful mess of knots.

“Sorry,” he murmured, ducking his head and hiding beneath the curtain of his fringe. Arya waved his words away, not really caring.

“It doesn’t matter,” she tells him, almost with an air of exhaustion. “Let’s just hope that we won’t have to resort to eating dirt.” _Or each other,_ Arya added silently knowing that, when in times that there was a lack of food supply in war and sieges, that men would sometimes have to resort to eating the dead or worse, killing them and _then_ eating their corpses. Arya shuddered at the thought, feeling a wave of nausea roll over her.

“Come on,” Gendry spoke out, causing Arya to turn back over to him, her eyes meeting his own. “We should not stay here. Let’s get this over with.”

When they moved, it wasn’t as quiet as Arya wished it to be; if there was someone lurking about, they would have surely heard their approach. The horses whinnied and snickered, flicking their head and snorting; Arya stayed barefoot, preferring to move like a ghost through the trees. Gendry and Hot Pie… not so much. Leaves and twigs snapped and crackled beneath their footsteps, sounding like thunder to Arya’s ears. Arya had half a mind to turn around and snap at them for being too loud but she could not summon the energy to raise her voice or even care for that matter. Instead, she stayed close to the ground, moving with enough grace that it would have made even Sansa green with envy; the thought of that almost made Arya want to laugh but she bit it back.

Though the three of them may have escaped the weight of darkness that was Harrenhal, Arya did not feel any safer than she did back then. The open forest around her did little to calm her nerves, with the wolves howling in the night. Arya wondered if they cried for her father just as she did. _Fear cuts deeper than swords._ But fear was not able to cut her from the inside out, didn’t make her bleed her life on the ground. _No, no, no_ , Arya hissed, almost wanting to shrink away from those thoughts. She couldn’t be afraid; she was Arya Stark of Winterfell, a water dancer and a wolf.

They drew closer to cottage and Arya was finally able to drink in its appearance; the dark wood of the exterior was nearly burnt away, the brownness crawling away in fear of the black scorch marks left by the licks of fire. The heavy smell of smoke and blood lingered in the air, toe foes hand in hand as was usual for Arya lately. Hot Pie took the horses and wandered around the back of the house as per Arya’s request to find them food and a place to rest. Her Stark grey eyes took in the red stains left splattered in the grass, red stars against a green sky. A tentative hand reached out to gently brush against the dried blood that was caked onto the walls, patches curling and flaking away at her touch.

“What do you see?” Gendry asked, bringing himself beside her as she stayed crouched on the ground. Arya briefly turned her body to see that he was watching her intently; it made her tummy quake and tumble and she had to turn away to regain her composure. Arya turned her gaze to what was around her, noting the single spade half pushed into the freshly turned, dark soil of the earth not too far away. The patches were similar in size and were laid side by side. _Graves,_ Arya sighed inwardly. Arya wondered if there was any such grave that would hold her body down should she die soon.

Arya twisted her body again, eyes narrowing when she saw exactly what she wanted. Getting to her feet, Arya brushed her palms against one another to rid herself of the thin film of dirt that could be wiped away before placing them on the growing swell of her hips.

“A farmer, most likely,” Arya revealed to Gendry. “They aren’t long dead but long enough that there won’t be any soldiers around; the blood that’s here is all dried and the fires are long since burned out. We should be save here for the most part.”

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye to see that Gendry wore a mask of surprise at her words. Arya couldn’t help but feel smug, like those times when she would be the one to understand a sum faster than Sansa could or when she scrambled up a tree quicker than Bran’s nimble limbs were able. A small victory that had been denied to Arya so many times that she would not regret relishing in the satisfaction.

“And how do you know they were a farmer?” Gendry shot back, his blue, blue eyes narrowing at her as he placed his arms over his chest. The skin on his arms was getting tanner, sun rays gold like butter melting over his skin to turn it a deeper shade. Arya had not been able to tan the first few days she was in King’s Landing; her skin turned red and pink and peeled away, much to Sansa’s disgust, her Septa’s dismay and to Arya’s own amusement. She would pick at the skin when she was bored but it was more often than not to make Sansa scrunch her pretty face up in obvious distain.

She pointed over to the patch of soil far opposite the grave site which had been a stroke of luck; had the vegetables been buried near the dead bodies, the taste would have been none too pleasant even for Arya’s gaping stomach. “Over there, the patch of vegetables; and you can see that he used to keep other animals, too, near it in what used to be a paddock. Maybe the soldiers took everything and killed them.” Arya gave an indifferent shrug; what had been the soldier’s trash was now their treasure. “Come on, I want to see how much there is.”

Arya gave a shout to Hot Pie to tell him to search what was left of the cottage before looping her harm through Gendry’s, pulling him towards the patch of soil. Her shoes still hung from his belt, tied together in knots at the laces but Arya didn’t mind being barefoot; she liked the feel of the grass against her feet, digging her toes into the soil and revelling in the rich earth. It reminded her of when she would run around barefoot in the godswood before her mother would tell her it wasn’t lady like.

When she reached the patch, Arya let go of Gendry’s arm, not hesitating to step forward and march into the mud; she felt herself sink a few centimetres, the gaping mouth of the earth nearly swallowing her feet. It was wet and made odd noises when she moved her legs towards a gentle green sprout. Arya could only hope that the food within the ground wasn’t too rotten for them to eat. Not that it would matter to Arya, the hunger she had crawling around inside her eventually going to eat her away if she didn’t eat something soon.

Arya heard Gendry’s sigh, causing her to turn back around to face him. It was odd for her, a lady in boy’s clothes standing in the mud, trying to assert her dominance to someone older and way taller than her who didn’t look half as dirty as she did. Arya wondered if there was any part of her truly left beneath the dirt, sweat and blood.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little _mud?_ ” Arya scoffed, smiling cheekily as Gendry frowned, cocking an eyebrow at her words. A sneaky thought wandered into her mind, making her crouch down into the ground so that her backside just about hovered above the dirt. Gendry gave her a snort in response. Arya rolled her sleeves up further along her arms, showing off the pale skin beneath and the obvious line of paleness and tan skin that met along her elbow. She took the time to sweep her hair behind both ears so that, for the first time in what felt like months, her hair was truly away from her face, and not hanging like limp curtains in front of her eyes.

“No,” he snapped, his cheeks turning redder in the sun. Gendry had been born beneath the sun unlike she had so he was able to fare better than her. “I’m just thinkin’ that we shouldn’t go get ourselves all… all dirty.” That made Arya snort, making him narrow his eyes at her before his own sinister like smile played on his lips. “Besides, a little lady shouldn’t be playing in mud.”

“Good thing I’m not a lady then,” Arya hissed back, her hands creeping towards the mud, fingertips sinking into the gritty feel of it. “You just don’t want to get your pretty face all messed up.” Arya realised at the very last second at what she had just said, the words slipping past her lips without her knowing it. Her eyes widened and she saw Gendry’s blue eyes widen too; had her face not already been sunburnt, he would have seen how red she was. His own cheeks were a dusty rose colour, like how Jon’s cheeks used to be after practising in the court outside with Robb.

“Oh, so you think my face is pretty?” Gendry teased, a smile slipping across his mouth his mouth as Arya dropped her gaze, feeling her face turn even redder beneath his stare. _By the gods, what did I just say?_ She hadn’t meant to say it to him, of course, Arya had only ever thought to keep that niggling little reminder that his face was quite nice to stare at. _Oh Gods, I sound like Sansa!_

“No!” Arya denied vehemently, getting to her face and curling her fingers in towards her palms so that fists were clenched at her sides. “I – I think that you’re – you’re ugly!” Gendry didn’t believe Arya due to the quiver of her voice and the heating in her face.

“Would it help if I say that I think you’re pretty too?”

Never before had Arya’s heart stopped so fast in her chest and so suddenly that she actually thought she were dead. Her mouth parted, a gust of air being sucked in through the gap, nails scratching at the rawness of her throat. If it were possible, her face would probably be the colour of pure scarlet by now. _He thinks… I’m pretty?_ No one had ever called her pretty before; well, no one except Jon and her father but that was different, they _had_ to tell her because they were family. _Mother never called me pretty…_ The true harsh reality that her own mother probably didn’t think of Arya as pretty made her heart ache and twist in new, painful ways. Arya remembered how her mother always made sure that Sansa knew she was beautiful but when it came to Arya…

Sometimes, Arya could still hear echoes of her eight year old self when she would cry herself to sleep.

She had always been odd, always been the black sheep. _Like Jon._ Sansa had once even told Arya that she was a bastard too, just like their older half-brother. Arya even believed it, because it had to be true; how else would it explain that she looked only like Jon and none of her true born siblings? It had caused such a panic and a stir within Arya, especially seeing how sure Sansa had been and how smug she was at getting Arya to swallow her words.

It did not matter if she were dressed in the finest silk or the dirtiest rags, her hair in braids or in tatters; she would always, _always_ be ugly Arya Horseface.

He was lying, Arya was sure of it, and it made her feel the hot flames of anger for a second before she gave out a short, mischievous smile, bending down again to scoop up a handful of dirt in her palm before flinging it at Gendry’s face.

It hit him right in the centre, splattering over his cheeks and forehead, clinging to his hair and falling off his chin down his jerkin. The smug smile on his face instantly disappeared and instead Arya was met with pure silence as Gendry blinked, blue eyes standing out against the blanket of brown. She had not known what else to do, not known how to answer to his lie so she had done the only thing she could.

Arya laughed.

It was a sudden spout, wrapping around her tummy and her throat as she bent over, clutching at her stomach as the laughter tore through her; Arya couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed so hard in her life. Gendry was a silent, unmoving statue, watching her with unblinking eyes as she laughed. He could have been the Smith, standing there but Arya didn’t feel the least bit like the Maiden. Her hair fell in front of her as Arya doubled over, wheezing and gasping for air.

“The – the _look_ on – on your _face_!” Arya bubbled, cheeks burning as she peered up through her lashes to sneak a peek at him only for another round of laughter to ensue. Her dirty hands reached up to wipe imaginary tears from her face, leaves trails of mud smeared on her cheeks, not that it mattered. As Arya stood, rumpling her hair and bringing it behind her ears again, her eyes managed to flicker up in time before she felt something slimy and cold hit her in the face. Water trickled down her neck and she could taste dirt in her mouth. Eyes opened suddenly to see Gendry had decided to fling mud at her too, a grin on his face as he clearly struggled to hold in his laughter – he didn’t win out.

Arya watched him as he laughed at her this time, a grin on his face as her doubled over, one hand on his knee and the other around his stomach; Arya reached up, letting a sleeve drop over her hand and swiped the dirt away from her mouth, spitting out the taste from the tongue and onto the ground beside her.

Hearing him laugh sent a sudden array of butterflies to flutter in her stomach, wings brushing against her tummy as her face grew warm beneath the cold; her lips parted and even she couldn’t resist the urge to let out a small giggle; it had been the first time in so long that Arya felt free enough to laugh and smile, to feel as if a small part of herself was growing back.

She hadn’t even noticed Hot Pie walking up, eyebrows knitting together as his eyes darted back and forth between Arya and Gendry.

“Why are you covered in mud?”

It only made Arya start to laugh all over again, this time Gendry joined in with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops.
> 
> So sorry for not updating last week; i was very busy working. And sorry for such a small, filler chapter.
> 
> I will hope to update next week!


	15. Moonglow in Her Hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amidst the war ravaging the land of Westeros, a lone Stark must find her way home, to her true family.
> 
> And yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I do not own any of the characters, places or story lines (unless stated otherwise) mentioned in the work; they all belong to their owner: G.R.R Martin  
> \- Mostly original dialogue.  
> \- A work of fiction previously known as "The Bull and the Wolf."  
> \- comments are very much appreciated!  
> \- for any more information, check out my profile!

**_Chapter Fifteen._ **

The moon had risen before the sun had set, the dull orange glow spilling across the bruised blue sky; Arya eyes were falling like the yellow star beneath the horizon, struggling to stay up and alert. The misshaped shack was still smoking and burnt, smelling of death and ash, choking her lungs as Arya tugged the torn woollen blanket that had been left on the bed around her bony shoulders. While hot and muggy in the day, the nights were much worse; the teeth of the cold sinking in to her skin with no amount of clothing being able to fight against the chill that came with the dark of night.

Lying in the bed of a dead man was much like sleeping in his coffin; Arya could catch the lingering scent of him, sweat and dirt mixed with the freshness of the cool air that poured in through the broken door. The mattress was full of straw and lumps but it was still too soft for her back; no longer was she a lord and lady’s daughter who slept in silk sheets and feather beds. Her hands were too rough and covered in soft pink scars that she picked at when she was too bored. Her hair was far past saving, full of jagged ends and strands full of dirt and grease. Arya managed to keep track of time through the growth of her hair, which now was ghosting past the tops of her shoulders in uneven layers.

The three of them were covered in darkness; despite Hot Pie’s begging of a fire being lit, Gendry and Arya did not give in however much they both wanted to feel the warmth. The remaining two horses spent the last while grazing on the dew slicked grass, ripping the green strands from the ground. Arya had spent a good ten minutes trying to teach Gendry how to tie the reins in such a way that the horses wouldn’t be able to tug the leather straps and undo the knot. His hands were too large and not delicate enough to thread the reins through each other but he persevered, at least willing to try.

There Arya sat with the thin blanket around her fragile shoulders, almost buckling under the weight of the world, and her knees pulled to her chest. Her eyes struggled to keep themselves open and alert, unable to see through the darkness of the night and were betraying how tired she felt. Her hair sat around her in disarray after her attempt to sleep failed; she had lain there, back facing her travelling companions with her fingers knotted together, lips forming unsaid words as silence hung heavy between them all. Hot Pie, for all that he couldn’t do, was able to make them a decent meal from the food that Arya and Gendry had managed to scavenge in the half rotten patch of dirt near the house and whatever else they could find in shrubs and trees. It sat heavy in her stomach, mixing with the fear and anger that long settled there.

What with the lack of any kind of looking mirror, Arya was curious as to how much she had changed; her pale skin, acquired from her upbringing in Winterfell, was receding and was turning into a gentle golden glow after months of sunburn and peeling skin. Should she pull her sleeve up above her elbows or remove her shirt altogether, the difference was almost comically noticeable.

Her hair had long since grown since Yoren had hacked away at it all those months ago, when she could have tasted her father’s blood on her tongue and the fat boy’s blood still fresh on Needle. Whatever weight she had before was long lost, her body a formation of sharp angles and bones. Her hands were sharp and nails blunt from her teeth gnawing at them; what little feminine traits she had were nowhere to be seen from underneath the layers of clothes that were all too large for her.

Arya’s fingers tightened on the grip she had on the woollen blanket as her free hand reached up to rub at her eyes, white stars like galaxies bursting in her vision; the stench of ash and smoke which had previously been over powering had slowly become something Arya became used to and, as such, it did not bother her lungs as it did at the beginning. Soon, she could smell the crisp fresh air, the dew on the grass and the remaining scent of the measly dinner they had all feasted on.

Arya tried to remember what home smelt like; she could remember the godswood, how the leaves, red as blood, would rustle against one another and there was that somewhat sweetly smell of the sap filling the air, rolling down the pale bark of the face in the ghostly white trunk of the tree. The smell of freshly baked bread and her mother’s perfume, copper from when she would prick herself on the sewing needle and watch as it soaked the thread. It was getting harder and more difficult for Arya to put herself back in those memories, out of heartache and the fact all those sweet memories were slowly fading from her mind’s eye, becoming nothing but golden blurs of a better time.

A sigh, which had been building up in her chest for quite some time, let itself be released, two columns of fog misting in the air. Arya sat staring out into the open world through one of the many gaps in the wall of the broken hovel; through it she could see the empty night sky and the sun bowing before the moon, falling deeper and deeper into slumber as the moon rose up, a figure of silver light shining down on the world beneath. Stars began to light up the sky, like candles slowly appearing in windows. Arya pulled herself closer together, trying to keep herself warm beneath the blanket she had, eyes blinking furiously.

“You should get some sleep.”

It was Hot Pie’s voice speaking from behind her, his voice cracking from the lack of talking the three did and almost a whisper, as if he was afraid that the dead men would hear him. Arya turned her head slightly towards him, acknowledging she had heard him, but kept her eyes on the space beyond the gap in the wall. It was as if she could pretend that the world out of these broken and battered walls was not real, that everything has momentarily stopped for her to watch the moon rise further and further in the sky.

“I’m not tired.” It was a lie. Arya was tired; physically, emotionally and mentally. _Night time is a wolf’s time._ She wasn’t a wolf. She wasn’t Arya Stark.

“Yes you are.” He managed to see that too.

Arya pursed her lips, teeth gripping on the cracked and broken flesh as she tried to ignore the uneasiness in her stomach, whether it was from the food or the lack of safety these walls provided, she didn’t know.  Hot Pie was sitting not too far behind her, but it annoyed her not talking to his face so she turned, moving her body to his direction as her tired eyes found his own buggy brown eyes. He had a blanket wrapped around his shoulders too, a white cotton one that he found tucked away, untouched by the death and destruction. He was resting in a corner, blocking the wind that was attacking her with his legs tucked beneath him.

Arya wondered how long she had been sitting there, gaze cast to the sky; her eyes flickered to the bed where she saw Gendry’s body curled up, briefly watching his chest rise and fall for a moment before turning back to Hot Pie.

“It doesn’t matter.” Arya didn’t like sleeping, didn’t like letting her guard drop; the things that haunted her at night were sometimes worse than the things that plagued the land. Once upon a time, all her dreams consisted of were swordfights and sweet cakes. Now, she was a beast crawling through the woods, canines feasting on the blood of her prey; no matter how much she hunted, her stomach would always be grumbling from hunger when she awoke.

The hunger distracted her from heartache.

Whatever nightmare that awaited her in her sleep could be no worse than what she was living at that moment. Her eyes found their way to the stars again, watching the diamonds sparkle and wink; was any of her family looking to the sky now? Was Jon staring up at the night sky atop of the wall, so high up that he would be able to reach a hand out and grasp a star for her? Maybe she could wear it around her neck, as a lady should, or maybe she could have it put into the hilt of her sword.

Jon, sweet Jon, her Jon, had probably forgotten all about her. If he were to see her now, he would think Arya some half mad beggar child who murdered Arya Stark and was wearing her skin. Death she could handle, but being forgotten? The ache in her heart hurt so much it tore a hole so big she thought it could never be repaired, could never be stitched back together even if Sansa had her best needle and thread.

How long had she been sitting there? How long had she been staring out, watching the red of the sunset melting into the paleness of the moon, its gentle, watery, silver fingers caressing Arya’s  face, catching on her skin and eyelashes, the freckles on her nose seeming much like the stars hanging in the night sky.

Too much time with her thoughts, too much time with herself, was becoming harder to bear, especially with the too loud silence that was deafening in her ears. A part of her wanted to scream, to let a howl rip through her lungs and mouth to shatter the world into pieces. With a feathery sigh, one too scared to carry on the air and punctured, Arya got to her feet, bones stiff and heavy like she had not moved in eons. Maybe she hadn’t moved in that long. Maybe kingdoms had fallen and oceans had risen but Arya would never have known from this tiny, secluded corner in the world.

Sleep, maybe sleep would be her friend tonight and let her drift in a void for a while to regain her strength.

The steps to the bed were heavy and dull, the sound not being able to bounce off the broken walls as her tired, tiny body slithered onto the bed, the mattress too soft and too kind for her body. Keeping the blanket around her shoulders, Arya toed her shoes off, watching the laces fall apart as the soles hit the ground; she watched as the left boot wobbled slightly, almost unsure whether it would regain its balance, before it toppled on its side like a drunkard. She sat with her shoulders hunched, not quite wanting sleep but maybe something else, something that was sure to promise her dreamless hours.

Maybe the spirit of the farmer had possessed her as she began to lay her too old body back onto the bed, tucking her feet up so as to not let the monsters beneath grab her ankles and drag her down into darkness. Odd lumps and bumps poked into her skin and Arya shifted, trying to find a comfortable position before she settled, curled into a tight ball on her side with her back to the edge of the bed that felt like the lip of a cliff; if she were to fall off, she felt that she would just fall forever.

The other occupant of the bed was untroubled by thoughts or life, blanketed in sweet unconsciousness; he lay on his back, hands on his stomach with his feet hanging off the end. The smell of hay, sweat, berries and trees filled her nose and Arya took a deep breath, letting it act as an anchor. His dark eyelashes were so long and the beard of his jaw was dark and bushy, making him look older. Gendry’s lips were parted and Arya wondered if he even knew how much of a masterpiece he was. Did he recognise he was beautiful?

Her grey eyes lingered on him, learning to breathe in and out steadily, as she tried to anchor herself to this world through him.    It couldn’t be so bad if he was here, if he was alive in the midst of all this horror and monstrosity. Gendry’s chest filled up with the sweet night air, holding it for a moment, before his lungs released its grip on the breath, letting it flow back out. Arya mimicked it, remembering how she needed to breathe as well; she didn’t need to drown, didn’t want to, if she had Gendry beside her. While her anchor, he was also the breath of air that seemed to save her at last moment. When her body seemed ready to give up and let the waves rush over her head again, Gendry pushed her up, breaking the surface, to gulp in the air.

Her hand twitched, one wounding its way around her stomach while the other slowly crept up, the pads of her fingers brushing along his arm, the sleeve pushed up to reveal the golden skin adorned with thick hair. Gendry’s arms were fascinating to Arya; they were large and thick, rolling muscles beneath, filled with strength yet, at that moment, she felt everything would shatter if she pressed too hard into his skin.

Her fingers trailed up, finding more canvas to brush over, before they found their way to his hands, the skin rough beneath. Gendry’s hands, much like the rest of him, were large, dwarfing Arya’s own as she placed her palm flush against the back of his hand, fingers splayed so that they covered each of his own, though they barely matched the width or length. He was warm, skin burning into Arya’s, and she curled closer to him, finding the courage to dip her head forehead to gently rest against his shoulder; her fingers moved, falling in the cracks between his own, before they curled inwards beneath Gendry’s hand, gripping it.

Arya couldn’t care less if Hot Pie could see her, she couldn’t care less what her mother or sister would think of what she was doing, holding onto Gendry’s hand while tucking herself close to his side. His hand did not react to her grip and she used her free hand to reach behind and grab the hem of the thin blanket, tugging it to free it and place it over Gendry, though he probably didn’t need it. But sharing the blanket comforted Arya, making her feel as if they were one, a whole object that was fractured at the edges.

Finally, her grey eyes began to close, mind and lungs filled with Gendry.

Drowning in him wouldn’t be so bad.

* * *

 

Waking up to the side of the bed being cold panicked Arya more than it should.

Her hand was empty, lost and floundering as her body sprang up, hair flying around her as grey eyes began to manically search for someone, anyone; the house was empty and her heart began to trip over itself while her lungs no longer worked. _Alone, alone, alone_ , she realised, bounding out of bed as fear coursed through her empty veins, forgetting her boots as her feet hit the ground, one after the other as she got to the door, pulling it open so fast that Arya wondered if she had pulled it off its hinges.

When had the lone wolf become so dependent on others?

But there, not five metres away, was Gendry, his pants rolled up to his knees while searching through the mud for food, his hair falling in his eyes. Arya could have let her body buckle with relief, could had let herself almost cry out at the realisation that he hadn’t left her during the night, that he was there, that he was still by her side. Since when had she become so paranoid? Since when had she so easily doubted Gendry? Was her trust in him that fragile?

The grass licked and kissed her bare feet, the feeling almost exhilarating and reminding her of when she and Bran would chase each other in the gods wood. Except she had no fine dress ruined with mud swishing at her ankles and Bran’s laughter was a distance memory from a dream. The blades of grass caught on the cuffs of her breeches, staining the hems with their tongues as she drew nearer to Gendry.

“Where’s Hot Pie?” her voice is rough and itchy, covered in cobwebs and dust. Arya almost thought she would start coughing up spiders.

“With the horses,” was Gendry’s grunt reply as he delved deeper in the mud. “I don’t think there’s much left in this place. We should get going as soon as possible.”

Arya didn’t answer him, only reached down to start rolling up the ends of her pants so that they stopped at her knees before she stepped forward, sinking into the muck instantly. The sound was disgusting and so was the feeling but Arya ignored it, getting to work as her hands were submerged in the vacant, rotted vegetable patch.

“Did you sleep well?” It was such a normal question, so normal that it just about made Arya want to trip over her feet and fall face first into the dirt. Gendry was standing up completely, rubbing his dirtied hands on his equally dirtied breeches, the wisps of his curls catching on his eyelashes. His eyes were particularly blue today, set against a grey backdrop for a sky.

“Yes, I did,” an equally normal reply that threw her off. “And you?”

A frown carved itself onto Gendry’s face; she was standing too, her ankles submerged as the filthy muck began to drip off of her hands, rolling off of the tips of her fingers. There was a distance between them that seemed so far and too impossible to close. Gendry’s gaze was towards the house, the smouldering ruin had since quelled its black smoke rising into the sky but the stench of death and ash lingered.

“No; I don’t like being here any longer than necessary,” Gendry said truthfully. “I don’t like being so vulnerable. For all we know, there could still be Lannister or the Mountain’s men in the area.” _Or Stark men,_ Arya wanted to interject.

“We’ll leave today,” Arya agreed, deciding not trying to prove her case that there were no Lannister men in the area. Why would they be? To perhaps steal a few rotten carrots?  Though, he was right in not lingering longer than they should. The horses needed a night of rest and so did they; the energy they regained would be enough to last until they got to Riverrun or perhaps to the nearest Stark camp. The thought of seeing her family made her heart give a feeble leap of half-hearted joy. What would they think when they laid eyes on her? Would they be so disgusted by the sight that they would send her away? Would they even think she was Arya Stark?

Was she even Arya Stark?

“Good,” Gendry nodded. “I better check how the horses are, there’s no knowing what Hot Pie might be doing.”

Arya quirked an eyebrow. “Weren’t you not even sure how to ride a horse not too long ago, let alone care about them?”

Gendry gave a roll of his eyes and Arya wondered if another mud fight would ensue. She almost wished it would. “I may not like them that much, but I wouldn’t wish the pain of being in Hot Pie’s care on _anyone_.”

A hollow laugh left Arya lips. It’s true that Hot Pie had no idea how to handle the beasts and for all she knew, he might have let them scamper off.

“If I am ever to get ill, promise me that you won’t let him take care of me,” Arya joked, turning back to the vegetable patch, hoping to find something edible that wasn’t rotten so that they might be able to pack it for the remainder of the journey. The reminder that this journey had end made her stomach tie in knots but it not in a good way. Gendry shook his head, curls bouncing back and forth. The ink black mop looked purple in the pale light of the sun behind the clouds.

“I could never be so cruel to you,” Gendry teased. Though the words were meant to be light to match the mood, Arya felt her heart stop, sharp like thunder before coming to a standstill. How could he say such things so lightly? An overreaction, as always. Every word, every action towards her resulting in her blowing them out of proportion. Arya felt like she was caught in the eye of a hurricane and that he always managed to push her out of safety.

Why did she always think the way she did? Why couldn’t her mind remain calm when it came to him? She was surely acting like a child and Gendry probably thought of her as such, as a spoiled noble child. He could never see her as an equal, could never see that she was just like him. Castle walls could easily be a jail cell.

Arya watched him leave, his pant still rolled to his knees, showing her the equally tanned skin beneath a mass of thick hair. Arya looked to her own legs, pale as they were, with the hair on the lean muscles growing darker, looking far more blacker against her white skin. The hair on her body had been growing darker and longer, matching the hair on top of her head in growth. Her legs hurt but it was neither from being atop of a saddle or walking; her stomach knotted itself, wrapping around and around, but it was from neither sickness nor hunger. Maybe all this pain in her body would disappear as soon as she rested properly.

Which would be when?

Once again, Arya wondered how her mother would react to seeing her youngest daughter in such a state; all dirty with hair chopped and dressed like a boy. If Arya’s appearance would not be enough to make her mother faint, surely the tales of Arya’s travels would, all from killing a man to sharing a bed with a boy, unashamed and not regretting it at all. What would her mother think upon seeing Hot Pie and Gendry? The thought of being separated worried and plagued Arya, making her heart stutter in her chest. Robb would understand, he wouldn’t separate Arya from her travelling companions, from her _friends._ Hot Pie may not seem like much, but Gendry could be a great soldier. He was tall and strong and he had helped her more than she thought possible. He had protected her as much as she had protected him.

There were more terrifying things out there than Lady Catelyn’s anger.

The thought of being torn from Gendry…

Her closest friend, the one person she trusted. But who was to even say that he thought of her the same? Maybe he thought she was a nuisance, a means to an end. Gendry could hate her for all she knew, hated her for getting them into this mess. He could have wished to never have spoken to her all those months ago. Even just the thought of him hating her, not wanting to do anything with her, made what was left of Arya’s heart rip in two, the shattered pieces cracking and blowing in the breeze like breadcrumbs.

No, this wouldn’t do. All these thoughts plaguing Arya were nothing more than a nuisance and distracted her. So what if he didn’t like her? He was just a bull headed boy. If he hated her, then she wouldn’t care.

**_She didn’t care._ **

Turning back to the task at hand, Arya was none to gentle in trying to grasp even something that felt like a carrot or onion, more than once only coming up with nothing. The place had been scooped clean, any remainder of a life before gone. Leaving as soon as possible would be smart and Arya almost wanted to hit herself for being as stupid as spending the night. They could have let the horses rest for a few hours to stop them from collapsing from exhaustion; but the tiredness that had crept into her bones was _overwhelming_ and the bed had looked _so_ soft compared to the hard earth…

Finally, success, her hand swiped aside some dirt and out popped a green stalk through the brown earth. Arya grabbed it, pulling it from the earth, the orangeness hidden; it was quite large at that, too, and Arya let a papery smile fall on her lips. Some good luck had finally appeared. Soon, next to the one she had pulled free, was another and then another carrot being pulled free from the earth, the same size but not rotten. A pitiful sight to anyone else, but for Arya thought they were food fit for a king.

As she set about turning around to show Gendry what she had found, that’s when Arya heard the singing.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry for the long, long wait. but i wanted you guys to know i'm not dead and this has been sitting in my drafts for about a solid three or four months. 
> 
> i frankly don't know when the next update will be, but i hope it to at least not be like last time and wait nearly a year to update.


	16. The Bear and The Maiden Fair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amidst the war ravaging the land of Westeros, a lone Stark must find her way home, to her true family. 
> 
> And yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I do not own any of the characters, places or story lines (unless stated otherwise) mentioned in the work; they all belong to their owner: G.R.R Martin  
> \- Mostly original dialogue.  
> \- A work of fiction previously known as "The Bull and the Wolf."  
> \- comments are very much appreciated!  
> \- for any more information, check out my profile!

**_Chapter Sixteen._ **

More than once had Arya been caught doing something she shouldn’t; whether it be Old Nan yelling at her for spoiling her supper with splurging on a feast of cookies and lemon cakes, crumbs falling down her dress and catching at the corner of her lips, or her Septa catching her swinging a wooden sword in the court yard with Robb, the clacking of contact of her weapon ringing in her ears sharply and less sweetly than metal. Back then the worse she would have to deal with was a scolding, words being thrown over her like water over rocks, eventually wearing her down so that she was so small and soft, prone to crying in her room later over all the horrible things said to her by her Septa and Sansa alike.

And there Arya stood, sun beating down with golden watery fingers harshly kissing her skin leaving it red and raw, only the wind cooling her down with the mud desperate to swallow her whole, just like the demons and monsters that haunted her both while she was asleep and awake. The carrots, thin and more bloated green than an orange hue, swung in her hands, limp and weak. The singing carried on the air, waves over waves, to her ears and it was the most frightening thing Arya could have ever heard in her life. Memories of being locked in that barn with Gendry and Hot Pie and half dead corpses floated to her mind, the screams echoing in her mind and _where are the Brotherhood Without Banners? Where is Beric Dondarrion? Where is the gold? Where is the gold?_ Even a blind man could have seen that there was no gold and deaf man would have been able to hear the screams that came before a slow, drawn out death.

Her feet where stuck in the mud, pants rolled up to reveal lean calves with a thin coating of hair growing there. Arya was caught; fear bubbling and melting her bones and muscles, whatever air around her was sucked from her lungs and, indeed, the entire world around her. It felt as if the sweet song being sung was like someone burying her alive, dirt being shoved down on top of her despite her heart beating in her chest that signalled her being far from death but it was too late; they were drawing closer, the melody echoing, catching, and stabbing her. There was no one but her, alone and frightened by how much _space_ there was around her, nowhere to hid, nowhere to jump out and use the element of surprise. _Fear cuts deeper than swords_. Fear wasn’t cutting her; it was holding her head beneath the waves and drowning her.

 _What do I do? What do I do?_ The mantra repeated, helpless and breathless as Arya realised how she was stuck; calling out for Gendry and Hot Pie would alert the strangers of their presence, something that they might not even be aware of. Staying where she was could result in said strangers seeing her. Running to hide could gain their attention. Either way, Arya was stuck; her feet in the mud that she wished would open up and make her disappear. Arya only had the dirk she used to kill that soldier all those eons ago with, when she had been Nan and a quiet mouse girl as well as a ghost. She was no ghost now, no Nan, no mouse girl. Who was she? A name, she needed a name. A new face, another stitch into her skin, another layer hiding who she was. The carrots dropped, landing upright into the mud and disappearing, as if they were never picked and had never seen the light of day. The sky above was rolling back, revealing the sparkling blue sea that was the sky, untouched and not violated by the bruises of the night or by grey clouds. If it had been raining, mayhaps it would have been easier to duck behind the corpse of the cottage.

“ _I’ll make her my love and we’ll rest in the shade_ …”

Arya didn’t know the song though she knew Sansa would have; she loved to sing and once, a travelling minstrel had come to Winterfell with his songs and sweet voice, filling the coldness with the warmth of summer and love ballads and flowers all for Sansa. All for Sansa. Always for Sansa.

The blade of the dirk was crusted black, blood from the creature they had to put down and the monster she had to put down. It flaked, rolling back to reveal the none too clean metal that winked the rays of the sun back to her. Arya slipped it from her belt, electing instead to slip it behind her, the cold kiss of the blade pressed against her hip, lips of a ghost.  The voice grew louder, loud enough that surely Gendry must have heard it; for what he lacked in grace and quietness, he made up for in his acute sense of hearing and strength. Arya wanted to call for him, to get his attention and for him to bring their rusted, blunt swords that would have made more use to be melted down.

The mud slurped and gurgled as Arya forced herself away from the graveyard of half dead vegetables, her feet covered in dirt that was slowly being washed away by the licking blades of grass against her feet. She needed to hide for she did not know how many were lurking behind the treeline; one voice she heard, though there could be more. The blade began to burn itself into her skin, a reminder that if things went wrong at least she wouldn’t give up without a fight and blood on her hands.

Arya spun, looking around, trying to see, trying to think but she was eight again, hand caught in the cookie jar and Arya was frozen. Who could it be, wandering in the woods with no fear and singing such a sweet song? Not the Bloody Mummers, they would rather the song of people screaming in pain than such a gentle melody. That made her heart trip in her chest; beneath the tunic Gendry had given her was the Lannister tunic, lion roaring in a sea of blood, the red scarlet from the man she had killed. If it had been the Bloody Mummers, surely if she showed the Lannister sigil stitched into her breast, maybe she would be safe? It was a weak hope, for Arya knew the only loyalties the Bloody Mummers had was in gold. Taking a chance, Arya ran, barefoot and pale faced, to the cottage, not caring whether her movement would catch someone’s eye. The dew slick grass nearly made her slip but Arya was a water dancer and far more graceful than Sansa ever could be with her dances.

Slipping into the shade offered to her by the cottage, Arya spotted one of the swords propped up by the hilt, not knowing whether it was hers or not and not frankly caring. Arya grabbed it in her sweaty hand, twirling it as that voice continued, nearing a close in its song. Arya kept crouched, not trusting the cracks and windows in the cottage that allowed passer-byer’s to peer in on the occupants. Arya held her breath to just be sure, mouth dry and stomach knotting itself around and around and around. Whatever food she had eaten was threatening to be thrown up. At that moment, Arya heard the sounds of feet entering, the wooden floorboards creaking, and panic seized Arya making her jump to her feet and whirl, heavy sword pointed towards the intruder but relief flooded her veins when Arya saw it to only be Gendry, his mop of curls limp and unable to carry the heavy weight of his growing hair.

Instantly, Arya placed a calloused finger to her mouth, dropping it switch her sword to that hand before grabbing Gendry’s larger one, tugging him down so he crouched next to her. He had put his shoes back on but his breeches remained rolled up, leaving Arya to witness the golden skin and dark hair of his calves. They stayed crouched, hand in hand, as Gendry, eyebrows furrowing momentarily before the sound of the singer’s voice reached his ears, his blue eyes widening.

“What do we do?” he asked her, capturing her gaze, the bluest blue against the dullest grey. An unknown feeling swirled with the panic and fear at him asking her, as if she was the leader. Maybe she was. They would still be stuck in Harrenhal if it were not for her.

And Jaqen.

She had not thought of the assassin in so long and it still hurt her heart, the tingling of her lips a reminder of what she had to secure their freedom. She had danced and kissed Death and lived. Maybe she was Death now. _Not today_ , echoed Syrio’s voice, soft with that foreign lilt. Arya had not spared much thought or time for her teacher for she felt as if someone was driving a sword through her heart when she did so.

Arya pursed her lips before capturing her paper thin bottom lip between her teeth, gnawing on it as her mind raced. “Where’s Hot Pie?” The fat boy had not entered when Gendry had and that made it troublesome.

“He’s still with the horses retying the knots,” Gendry revealed, voice low and husky, still thick with sleep and exhaustion. The bad beneath his eyes told Arya of the severity of his tiredness. Their hands still remained locked and that calmed Arya down, her heart slower but now irregular for a different reason. It made her feel less anxious to know she wasn’t alone and that Gendry was here, that he would fight if something went wrong. Arya’s eyes flickered towards the cottage door, left hanging open like a lip to a mouth, gaping. With a squeeze to Gendry’s hand, Arya gave a nod, turning back to the older boy.

“Get and stay hidden with the horses. Try and keep down and if something goes wrong and he sees either one of us, get ready to fight.”

 He quirked an eyebrow at her words. “What are you going to do?” Arya briefly let herself indulge in thinking that he was worried about her.

“I’ll stay here and watch out. If he sees me, I’ll kill him. Now go!”

Gendry pursed his lips, displeased with her words but gave a short, sharp and brisk nod, signalling his understanding of her order, the curls on his hair bouncing lamely on his head. In the shade, the strands looked like they were coal, when caught with the light of the sun, seemed almost kindling with a flame. Arya turned away, waiting for him to leave, and he stood, rolling onto the balls of his feet to lessen the creak of the floorboards. But not before he gave a squeeze of her hand, reassurance and comfort. Her heart stopped briefly, skin burning and tingling from where his hand had been before he dashed off to re-join Hot Pie, keeping low and in the shade. Arya’s eyes could not help but follow him as he did so, her hand still curled as if a phantom hand was holding hers. A sharp memory drifted forward, in Harrenhal, her hand on his bare chest, trying not to think about how naked he was were it not for the pair of breeches he wore.

Shaking her head and scolding herself, Arya turned away; _don’t be such a stupid girl_ , she chastised herself, _you sound like Sansa when she would talk of Joffrey._ The thought of the boy king made her stomach clench in hatred, in anger and in disgust. Soon enough, his pretty, sneering golden head would be on a pike. Arya would see to it.

The singer stopped, the last note of his voice stretching out before fading away and Arya panicked, wondering if he saw them, saw _her_ , but then he picked up a new song, voice adjusting lower to the new tune, this one more upbeat which did not apply to Arya’s situation at all. Arya’s hand held to the sword tightly, her knuckles a pale yellow from how the skin was stretched over her tired and aching bones. _Please, let them pass. Please let them_ _leave_ , Arya begged, the voice naught but a whisper in her mind, like when she would pray in the Godswood with Jon and Robb, either brother on either side of her as her hands clasped together and knotted, tongue tripping over prayers that she had learnt all her life. The Old Gods frightened her less than the New Gods, her mother’s gods. Her mother hated the godswood and hated when Arya would go in there to pray or to hide from her Septa, with unknown eyes watching her lady mother and calling her a misbeliever.

Arya didn’t know who she was praying to, all gods or none, him of fire or him of Death. Arya stayed silent, not sure if she was breathing until there was a burning ache in her chest and she had to take a breath. The new song continued on, the chorus flowing into another verse and the voice grew distant, lessening the anxiety in her chest.

And then one of the horses whinnied.

Instantly, the singer stopped and the world had never been so quiet. All noise stopped, save for the erratic beating in her chest. She bit down so hard on her lip that she could taste the coppery taste of blood.

“Did you hear that?” A voice, a man, asked. Maybe the singer? He had to be talking to someone, meaning there was more than one person.

“Hear what?” This voice was deeper, gruff.

“There’s something behind that wall,” replied the first voice and Arya gulped.

“Oh, aye? What do you think it might be, Archer?” Another voice or maybe the same voice as before? Arya didn’t know and, to her horror, the voices grew louder, closer to her hiding spot. Her grip on the sword became impossibly tight and it was becoming harder to regulate her breathing. After so long without facing any real danger from strangers, Arya had let her guard lessen, even if it was only slightly. Arya had been so caught up on her hope that they were near Riverrun that she had practically thrown all reason away, hoping that she would make it back in the arms of her brother and mother and would never have to face any of the monstrosities that she had been made to witness in her journey.

“A bear.” This voice was different, leading Arya’s count to three, possibly four. The previous speaker had called one of their companions Archer, whether his name or his profession, Arya did not know only that if an archer was amongst them, then their chance of survival was dwindling. Arya wished Gendry had stayed by her side but she shook that thought away. She was Arya Stark of Winterfell and she had the blood of the wolf.

"A lot of meat on a bear," the deep voice spoke again, far too close to Arya’s liking. Surely they knew how loud they were or maybe that was the plan, to scare whoever was in hiding to come out for them to murder or steal from. Or both. "A lot of fat as well, in fall. Good to eat, if it's cooked up right."

As if on cue, Arya’s stomach gave a pathetic growl and she gripped at it throw her tunic, hoping to quieten the sound.

"It could be a wolf, maybe even a _lion_." A wolf? A lion? Wolves barely even existed this far south, save for the ones marching down from Winterfell to follow their king, their Stark.  Arya’s mind then thought of Nymeria, her pup who would be a pup no longer but a beast now, tall as a horse with the strength of a bear. If only her wolf was here now, to fight alongside her. Whatever was left of Arya’s heart ached in the prison of her ribs.

"With four feet, you think? Or two?" A jest but one that turned her stomach upside down. Not Lannister men, nor were they Stark men. Maybe they were no one’s men, cravens who fled form battle to hide out in the woods to murder and steal from helpless pass-byers. Arya was anything but helpless and the blood on her hands was enough to show for it.

"Makes no matter. Does it?"

"Not so I know. Archer, what do you mean to do with all them arrows?"

"Drop a few shafts over the wall. Whatever's hiding back there will come out quick enough, watch and see." _No, no, no,_ rang in Arya’s mind, panic spiking as she thought of Gendry and Hot Pie, the thought of them being struck dead by an arrow making the threat of throwing up becoming all too real. _Please, no, don’t do it._ She was becoming weak, undone at the seams and couldn’t believe she was still the girl who killed a man all those weeks ago. If she was the same girl she had been back then, she would have jumped out and killed them all like a true water dancer would. But she hadn’t been Arya then, she had been Nan the quiet mouse girl and before that, Arry, the bastard orphan. Was she Arya now? Was this how Arya Stark was? _No, I am a wolf. I will kill them all._

"What if it's some honest man back there, though? Or some poor woman with a little babe at her breast?"

"An honest man would come out and show us his face,” one of the voices reasoned, sounding bored by it all. Arya heard a shifting and wood knocking, knowing that their archer had nocked an arrow. _What do I do? What do I do?_ Risk her identity and make sure Gendry and Hot Pie are safe or leave to possibly die? The answer was too clear. “Only an outlaw would skulk and hide."

"Aye, that's so. Go on and loose your shafts, then."

It only took a brief second for Arya to stand, barefoot with mud drying against her pale skin and flaking, before she rushed out, heart thumping madly in her chest as the light shone on her, green grass licking her feet and the cool breeze ruffling her knotted rat’s nest of hair. The sword was too heavy and was comical when being held by Arya, who was too small and thin to seemingly hold the weapon but all those months of training and walking had helped her gain what little muscle her body allowed. Her eyes were wide, grey clouds holding back a storm, as she found her voice.

“Don’t!”

There were three, not four as she was worried, men looking at her, almost shocked at her appearance, blinking and the archer briefly let his bow dip. Maybe, just maybe, she would be able to kill them with Gendry and Hot Pie’s help. She was quick on her feet and Gendry was strong and surprisingly fast when swinging a sword. And Hot Pie…

Well, he was Hot Pie.

Though the archer would most likely shoot her full with arrows before she could take a step nearer and so Arya was strapped to the ground, toes curling inwards towards the grass. Arya was able to pick out the singer the easiest from the harp he had swaddled in his lap, like a new born babe. His clothes, like the rest of his companions, were faded and were more stitching than actual clothes, held only together by the amount of thread used to stop it falling apart at the seams. He was small, smaller than Gendry, and he was a homely man if anything else with thin brown hair and a sharp nose. On his lips, was a permanent smirk.

His companion, the one with the gruff voice Arya guessed, was strange looking with a lemon coloured cloak, frayed and fading, stained with mud, grass and blood. He was tall and thick, reminding her of a soldier with a long sword hanging from his hip.

Lastly, was the boy holding the bow; he was young, maybe near Gendry’s age but nowhere near as manly looking with a bare face or tall as him, with freckles and he was thin though obviously had enough strength to pull back the bow with the arrow that was slacking from its previous tight grip. His red hair reminded her of Sansa’s but it was more bloody than coppery.

It was silent, Arya starting at the strangers and them her, and she wondered how many steps it would take to get close enough to kill them or how long it would take for the archer to nock his arrow back into place. The man with the yellow cloak glared at her beneath his iron helmet, his mouth a frown beneath his busy beard. Arya knew she must look a right state, with her bare, dirt caked feet, limp and knotted hair along with the sword that was becoming heavier and heavier to hold as the seconds trickled by.

And then, quite suddenly, the singer ran a hand over his harp, long fingers plucking a single string, the sweet sound garnering Arya’s attention. When was the last time she had heard such soft, sweet music? Far too long, though she had never liked it much before; that had always been Sansa’s area expertise. The only thing Arya ever bested Sansa in was horse riding and sums. And now swords as well.

 "Girl," he said, his voice soft and feathery, holding a musical hint to it, "put up that sword now, unless you're wanting to be hurt. It's too big for you, lass, and besides, Anguy here could put three shafts through you before you could hope to reach us."

Arya’s eyes moved from the singer to the Archer, Anguy, and glared at him, the hair behind her ears threatening to slip free and fall in her eyes. Anguy seemed to almost puff his chest up at the compliment from the singer, a snarky smile that reminded her all too much of Joffrey making its way onto his lips.

"He could not," Arya snapped back, turning away from the archer and back to the singer, who seemed to be the voice of the group. Arya noticed the knives her had strapped to him and knew him to not be some helpless minstrel as many were. Her grip on the sword tightened and Arya gathered the remnants of courage left in her body, the wisps barely being enough. "You go on down the road. Just walk right past here, and you keep on singing, so we'll know where you are. Go away and leave us be and I won't kill you."

The singer plucked another string, this one higher than the previous one and his eyebrow darted up his forehead, creases and wrinkles appearing in the skin, ignoring her threat. Arya realised her mistake all too late, teeth biting down on her tongue for her idiocy. _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

“Oh, it’s ‘us’, is it?” The singer laughed, though it wasn’t a nice laugh; bitter and cold, making Arya scowl at the man. She didn’t want to speak lest she say anything more. Arya wanted nothing more than to hit herself over the head for her stupidity, to pull her hair out for being careless. “Who else do you have hiding back there?”

“No one,” Arya replied, voice croaking and being spat out, hand becoming stiff from her grip on the rusty sword, the bronze and green spots reminding her of its uselessness. “It’s just me and my horse.”

“Then you wouldn’t mind if Lem here went to check whether you’re lying or not?” The singer teased but not playfully. In his eyes, was a seriousness that Arya did not like. Lem was the man with the lemon colour cloak and Arya did not like him either. “Or, shall Anguy here let loose a few arrows? If you’re _really_ alone then you won’t have a problem.”

 _Shit, shit, shit_ Arya cursed, heart in her throat and mouth dry, filled with cotton and silk, too fat to move, to object or agree. She could only glare at the singer, jaw clenched and stomach knotted so tightly it was as if someone was shoving a blade through the soft flesh of her belly. What to do? Object and they would know she was lying. Agree, and they would definitely know she was lying, and she would be putting Gendry and Hot Pie in danger.

Before Arya could decide a squeak came from behind her, making her foolishly turn, wide eyed, to see Hot Pie stumble out, his buddy eyes nearly popping out from his skull. It almost reminded Arya of that fat little boy she stabbed in the stables, her blade cutting through his thick belly like butter. Arya whipped her head back to the three men in front of her; the smile on the singer’s lips growing wider and Anguy let a laugh out at the appearance of the fat boy. _You idiot!_ Arya wanted to shout, to thump him over the back of the head. Only Lem remained blank, save for the tightening of the frown on his lips.

“Don’t shoot! Please don’t shoot!” Hot Pie begged, waddling up to stand near Arya. The anger within the Stark girl was enough to make her want to turn around tell him she didn’t want him anywhere near her. _He’s just a no good craven_ , Arya spat in her mind.

“Fear not, lad!” The singer laughed, plucking another string, this one mellow and matching perfectly with the chuckle escaping its owner’s lips. “We won’t be doing that now. Is that all there is? Just the two of you?”

A beat of silence, Arya’s lips pursed and her tongue sitting in her mouth, unsure if she should give Gendry away. It was no use now, no use hiding from the men since already two of his companions had shown themselves. Still, revealing his presence felt like almost a betrayal to the older boy. And Arya Stark was no traitor. As she mused on whether or not to tell the strangers of the blacksmith’s presence, he stepped forward.

“No, that isn’t all.”

This time Arya didn’t turn around to see Gendry step out from his hiding spot and instead glared at the men in front of her. If it weren’t for them, they would have left and been on their way to her mother and brother. It almost made Arya want to yell in frustration; how the world seemed to love putting one obstacle after another in front of the Stark girl, as if to see how much it would take for her to break, for her to finally burn out from the flame that was eating her alive on the inside. Arya was tired, was tired of fighting, of having to wake up every morning and remember how alone she was, how her father was dead, how Sansa was being held captive in King’s Landing, how Bran was lying in his bed, broken and unconscious.

How Jon was the furthest he had ever been from her, dressed all in black with only the cold and traitors for company. Did he think of her often? Did he miss her? Why would he, all she was a murderer, a girl with no name and forever lost, separated from her home.

Arya watched the men, their eyes moving from Hot Pie to behind her, to land on Gendry. Strangely, the singer plucked a string but it wasn’t in tune, wasn’t on purpose like the other times and it was harsh, unpleasant to the ear. His face seemed paler too, as if he has seen a ghost, eyes blinking and the smile from his lips dropping, sharply and suddenly. Even the man with the yellow cloak, quiet and emotionless Lem since she laid eyes on him, blinked thrice at the sudden appearance of the older boy, eyebrows furrowing together so tightly that a crease appeared. Maybe they weren’t expecting another person to show; or maybe they were shocked at how tall and strong Gendry appeared, less like a boy of ten and seven more like twenty and seven. The beard on his face made him look much older than he was. It was silent as their eyes followed Gendry, his footsteps loud as he made his way to stand close to Arya, close enough that she could just about feel his body heat seeping in to her own. In his hand, was clutched a sword. Hot Pie was empty handed. For the briefest and most childish moment, Arya thought about reaching out and taking Gendry’s hand in hers but the moment passed and she scolded herself for acting like such a baby, like Rickon would by holding onto his mother’s skirts and beg for attention, wailing at the top of his voice that the entire North could hear him.

“My, what a find,” the singer spoke, though his voice wasn’t as strong or soft as before, his tongue darting over his cracked lips all the while his eyes never leaving Gendry. “First come one, then two and, finally, three. It must be... quite a story you all have, one I would love to hear.”

“I’m afraid we must be on our way,” Gendry spoke before Arya could, voice low and almost threatening. The calm before the storm. “Listen to her and be on your way.”

Arya felt the annoyance spike at being simply called ‘her’ by Gendry but bit down on it, knowing that if she should say anything, she might give her identity away. A name, a new face, that’s what she needed. Arya stayed silent, the scowl on her face deepening further as the singer once again blinked, finger plucking the wrong string again. The harp was becoming an annoyance and Arya wanted nothing more than to snap it over her knee and burn the pieces remaining.

“Ah…” the singer said, as if trying to gather his words to let drip off his tongue, letting his eyes linger on Gendry for only a brief moment more before turning back to Arya, whatever having caused him to briefly become undone disappearing as the smile appeared on his lips again, but not as sharp. “It’d be a shame to let you go without giving you food. I’m sure you all must be very hungry.” His eyes flickered towards Hot Pie on that sentence, teasing the fat boy before turning back to Arya. The thought of food was tempting but Arya trusted these men about as far as she could throw them. “Come with us and we’ll give you a safe place to rest and put some food in your belly.”

“No thanks,” Arya snapped, trying to reel back the venom that was dripping from the tip of her tongue. “We should be on our way, as should you.” She stood taller, clenching her jaw and trying to appear intimidating, but knew she was not succeeding when the singer laughed again, a melodious sound that drifted through the air, a song in itself. Once again, Arya thought of her sister who dearly loved to sing. Whatever songs that had been taught to her were now dust, ash on her tongue, music only for dead men.

“Oh, come now!” the singer laughed. “What’s the hurry? Surely there’s no harm in sharing names and stories when there’s food involved.” Despite his attempt to be good natured, the archer with his bow still held upright made it feel more like an order than an invitation.  If they wanted to get away, the Archer would be the main problem…

“I’m Hot Pie,” said the fat boy, in a trance at the mention of food and it took everything within Arya’s will to not turn around and punch the boy for being so stupid. Another laugh escaped the singer’s mouth and Arya wanted to knock his teeth out, to stop him from laughing ever again.

“Aye, and so you are! I’ve never met anyone with such a delicious name! And your friends? Are they Squab and Mutton Chop?”

It was Gendry who spoke, his face dark. “Why should we tell you our names when you haven’t given us yours?”

Once again, the singer turned his attention to the older boy, a knowing smile on his face, though it disturbed Arya how he stared at Gendry. “Aye… you’re right. How rude of me; my name is Tom of Sevenstreams, though more famously known as Tom Sevenstrings. Tom o' Sevens, if you’re not bothered to say such a mouthful. This great lout with the brown teeth is Lem, short for Lemoncloak because, well… it's yellow, you see, and Lem's a rather sour sort of a fellow. And young fellow me lad over there is Anguy, or Archer as we like to call him, as you can see why yourself.”

With another string plucked, the introduction to the group ended but Arya didn’t feel all the reassured. The names were odd, if they were even their names. If she had doubts about telling them her name before, she was sure enough that it was something she was not going to do.

“Now,” Lem spoke, his deep voice almost startling Arya since he had stood still, a statue frozen by time, all the while this interaction played out. “Tell us your names.”

Arya pursed her lips, tempted to cross her arms over her chest but the sword prevented her from doing so. “You can call me Squab if you want, I don’t care.”

“I’m Bull,” Gendry relented, voice as gruff as Lem’s and, truly, Gendry seemed almost to be near the man’s height. Arya was glad he had followed her lead in not giving away their true identities. If they had known him to be the same boy the queen had been looking for all those months ago, she had no doubt they would turn him over. As for her… well, Arya didn’t want to think what would happen if they found her to be Arya Stark.

“Squab and Bull,” the singer, Tom, spoke, letting the names sit on his tongue before another smile graced his lips. “Good fine names, I would say so. Tell us, whose men are you? Boltons or Lannisters?” _Starks,_ Arya wanted to say but held back.

“Neither,” she said. “Whose men are you?”

“The King’s.”

“Which king?” Arya scoffed. There were far too many kings in Westeros at the moment and there was only one she truly cared about.

“Why, King Robert, of course.” The singer replied, voice wistful and full of sadness. Once again his eyes were on Gendry and in his eyes was an emotion Arya could not name. Longing? Hope? No, that was ridiculous.

“King Robert is dead,” she spat. She had remembered when he died, how the bells tolled and how her father seemed lost, like a fish out of water or a wolf in a sea of lions. Floundering and trying desperately to breathe. They didn’t look like King’s men, if they were they would wear armour instead of the frayed clothes they wore, and they would have horses. Would their loyalty to Kind Robert extend to House Stark? No, they probably thought her father as much of as a traitor as the rest of Westeros. _Lies,_ Arya thought, the mere would traitor in the same sentence as her father’s name was like poison in her mind.

“Aye,” sighed the singer, eyes still lingering on Gendry, just as Lem’s was. “And a big pity it is, too. He was a good man, too good for the throne.”

“He was a useless drunk,” Gendry replied, tight lipped and eyes hard. “He went and got himself killed by a boar like a drunken idiot.” At his words, Tom’s eyebrows darted up his forehead and his hand stalled over his harp, a silence falling over them like rain. Hot Pie, unable to keep his mouth shut for so long, opened it to let his voice be heard.

“Do you know how far Riverrun is? We’re trying to get there.” Arya wanted to kill the fat boy, to stick him with her sword for his words. _You stupid idiot!_ Tom turned to Hot Pie, a devilish smile on his thin lips now. Arya wanted to turn and threaten Hot Pie to shut his mouth or she’ll make sure he never spoke again.

“Riverrun? Such a long way away, too long for such young children to travel even with the horses.”

“I am _not_ a child,” Arya spat. She was ten and three and had killed two people. Four, if she was to count Chiswyck and Weese, and more if she were to add in all those soldiers that had been unfortunately posted at the gates of Harrenhal the night she and her friends escaped. How many people died by her hands? Maybe Arya Stark was one of those people and she was wearing her skin.

A smirk, almost cruel and suggestive, appeared on Tom’s lips but Arya glared at the man. “Aye, forgive me. A slip of the tongue. A child you are not, that I can see for sure. Though… Riverrun is a long way to go for anyone. You should come with us; there is an inn not too far. You can rest up, fill your bellies and be on your way before you know it.”

Arya didn’t trust this man nor his smile and, with a look to Gendry who caught her eye, it seemed neither did he. But the ache in her stomach was becoming too painful to bear and Arya didn’t know if she would die in her sleep from the lack of hunger, but it began to feel like she would. And she knew that both of her companions were feeling the ache in their bellies too. The purple bruises from the lack of sleep beneath Gendry’s eyes made her chew her lip and the promise of shelter and food was becoming all too tempting for her. She wasn’t going to make him or Hot Pie suffer over her stubbornness. But not everyone who spoke friendly was your friend; Arya learned that all too well.

“How far?”

“Two miles, a league at most,” Tom replied, the smile returning as if pleased to see Arya cracking underneath his offer. “A friend of ours run it and she’ll look after you.”

“A friend?” A friend of theirs might try to poison the food or slit their throats during the night.

“Aye, Sharna is her name, and her husband is there too. She’s got a soft spot for young girls.”

That didn’t reassure Arya at all and whatever hope she had of going to this inn diminished when Tom said he knew the innkeeper. Any friend of Tom’s was an enemy of her. Lately, the world seemed to be filled with enemies at every twist and turn, haunting her dreams and waking footsteps. Arya clenched her jaw, lips pressed together in a straight line and darted her eyes from each man in front of her. Anguy would be a problem with his bow and arrows, neither of which he had put away and was still aiming at the three young travellers. Lem was tall and strong, and he held a proper long sword at his side, glistening and sharp, a stark contrast to their own rusted and blunt swords. Arya knew that the archer wouldn’t hesitate to put an arrow in her if she thought to fight. It was all too obvious that it was no offer they were handed, it was an order and if they denied to go along with the three men they would no doubt die. Arya could feel all eyes on her as she tried to think of a way out but found none. Finally, Arya dropped the sword that had been so tightly gripped in her hand all this time and let a sigh bleed past her cracked and peeling lips.

“Fine. We’ll come to this inn of yours,” she relented, doubtful and hating the words passing her lips. Hot Pie seemed relieved but Gendry’s face was blank, save for the frown beneath his beard. Still, he did not object. “But you walk ahead and we’ll ride behind you so we can see what you’re doing.”

“Brilliant!” laughed Tom, getting to his feet and giving the harp a sharp strum, the world filled with the briefest sweetest sound there ever was before it died. “Anguy, pull up those arrows of yours and help young Hot Pie to bring ‘round the horses.”

Arya knew why he chose Hot Pie to be the one to bring around the horses, for the fat boy was weak and held no courage to fight back. He was harmless and this way, both Lem and Tom could keep an eye on Arya and Gendry, who both held weapons and much more capable of fighting. Anguy tore the arrows from the ground, digging up dirt and grass, before slipping the bow behind him and Hot Pie led him away, the relief on his face almost disgusting Arya. For all they knew, this was a trap they were walking into.

Arya sheathed her sword and Gendry followed her lead, though it looked more natural on him since the sword was comically large in his hand. The horses whinnied and bucked their heads as Anguy and Hot Pie led them around, looking in far better shape than before after a good rest and some food. However, Tom’s eyebrows once again quirked up his forehead.

“Two horses and, yet, I see three people in front of me,” Tom commented, turning to Arya, as if asking for an explanation.

“One of the other horses fell and broke its leg. We… put it out of its misery.” Arya’s stomach still churned at the memory at how the blood flowed from the neck of the horse, the sleek muscle becoming stained as a waterfall was being slurped up by the ground. Now that she thought about it, leaving the horse there was a terrible idea. Anyone could have found its body and could have known it was taken from Harrenhal, leading them on a chase for the three travellers who escaped from the hellhole.

“A pity,” Tom clucked as Anguy handed the reins to Gendry. The action annoyed Arya for she was the one who was the better rider and spent her entire life around horses. Of course she couldn’t tell them that because they couldn’t know that she was a high born, let alone Arya Stark. Taking the leather from Gendry’s rough hands, Arya slipped them back over the horses neck, gripping the all too familiar material in her hands, before hooking her bare foot in the stirrup and hoisting herself up with little difficulty. Her boots lay forgotten in the cottage. Her body still ached as a reminder but she pushed it away, settling herself up further the saddle to make room for Gendry.

With the sleep she had managed to grab during the night, she wasn’t as cloudy minded or a frayed mess as Gendry pulled himself up, hands brushing over her legs, leaving trails of a flame behind him. As always, he was like a hearth, burning and seeping into her bones, soothing her soul and hurts. If she was a softer and gentler girl, she would have let a sigh slip past her lips and leaned against him. Arya almost didn’t see the look Tom and Anguy gave at the sight of her and Gendry sharing a horse. Lem remained as sour faced as ever. She would have blushed had she been more inclined to do such actions.

It wasn’t long before they were riding side by side with the walking men, the movement of the horses rolling her hips as the saddle dug into her inner thighs. When she had begun sharing a horse with Gendry, Arya learned to place as much space as she could between her and the older boy. Mostly because the movement of the horse and the feel of being pressed up against Gendry was enough to send her shallow breathed and red cheeked. Beside her, Tom strummed his harp and looked up at the Stark girl.

“Do you know any songs?” He asked innocently but Arya knew the man to be anything but innocent. “I dearly love to sing but Lem can’t carry a tune to save his life and Anguy only knows those marcher ballads, dreadfully long boring things a hundred verses long.”

“We sing _real_ songs in the marches,” Anguy snapped back, though in a playful tone. He walked on the other side of Arya, his red hair often catching on the sunlight. As he finished speaking, he turned towards Arya and gave a wink. She rolled her eyes at that though there was a slight heat in her cheeks.

“Singing is stupid,” Arya spat, the vision of her sister coming to the fore, pretty, soft spoken Sansa with her beautiful voice. She always loved showing off her pretty voice and Arya hated it, hated _her._ Arya always shouted the words to the demise of her Septa. No amount of coaxing, scolding or threatening could make Arya sing. She didn’t want to even attempt singing for she knew the words that would leave her Septa’s and her mother’s mouth would be _why couldn’t you be good like Sansa?_ Arya saved herself from the pain of the words by never bothering to sing in her life. “Singing makes noise. I heard you a long way off. We could have killed you with the amount of noise you made.”

“Ah, my dear Squab,” Tom teased, strumming his harp again. His fingers were calloused from years of playing and years of fighting. Arya wanted to tell him that she wasn’t his dear anything. “There are worse things than dying with a song on your lips.”

Arya closed her mouth again, focusing only on the warmth of Gendry behind her and his breath on her scalp.  She wanted to turn and speak with him, but with Anguy and Tom so close to them, it would be difficult. His hands were on the swell of her hips and tried to focus on that, all the while wondering if she would be able to turn the horse fast enough to knock Anguy over and gallop off into the woods. They could live like Wanda the White Fawn and be outlaws together. A cough broke her thoughts and Arya heard Hot Pie speak.

“I know a song about a bear.”

Tom turned around to look at the fat boy, fingers still absentmindedly plucking the strings of his harp. “You do, do you? Well, give us a verse there! If I know it, I’ll join in!”

And then Hot Pie opened his mouth and the space filled with a sweet voice, shocking Arya that the boy managed to sing so well. Tom’s voice joined Hot Pie’s and the harp mixed in, making the journey feel a lot more comfortable thought it would. Arya thought that this journey was almost as comfortable as the one from Winterfell to King’s Landing. That is, until the Hound killed Mycah.  The memory of her butcher friend floated to the surface and lump formed in her throat, making it hard to swallow.

The journey was filled with singing, provided by Hot Pie and Tom along with his harp, with Anguy sometimes attempting to talk to Arya but she remained tight lipped, refusing to divulge anything important. Lem and Gendry remained quiet and emotionless as ever.

Wherever they were being led, it made Arya’s stomach reduce to nothing. She felt angry at herself for being so stupid, for not leaving when they should have. If she could, she would have hit herself. Now, they were in this mess because she was too lazy, too stupid to realise the world was filled with evil men who wouldn’t think twice about killing a girl. What disturbed Arya more about this group of merry men than other soldiers, was that they were so _friendly._ Had she been so long without kindness that any sort would be met with hostility? Doubt and panic were crawling over her again, nipping at her skin, and she couldn’t stand the singing anymore. Her body was rigid and she held to the reins tightly, back stiff as a board as she glared ahead past the horse’s twitching ears.

A warmth encased Arya’s hand and she jumped slightly in the saddle, before realising the hands belonged to Gendry. Eyebrows furrowed, she realised he was slowly unfurling her stiff fingers from their grip on the reins, leaving her palm a victim to the gentle cool breeze. It was an almost euphoric feeling against her raw red hands and Arya retracted her hands from Gendry’s feeling his other hand come around to hold on to the leather, almost trapping Arya. It had always been her to lead the horse but this time, it was all three of them being led by someone else and Arya was left floundering, unsure of what to do with her hands unoccupied.

“Relax,” he whispered in a low tone so that it only reached her ears. Relax? How could she relax? They could be being led to their deaths for all they knew! Arya gnawed on her bottom lip, thinking about snatching the reins back from Gendry but her hands ached, still tender from all those weeks of travelling by horse. Despite the brief respite she had allowed them, her skin still hadn’t recovered and red sores appeared on her palm and fingers. Stretching her fingers, Arya swallowed roughly and decided, for once, to not have everything depend on her.

Cautiously, she settled back in the saddle, letting her back ghost Gendry’s chest, a relief and softer than the mattress she slept on during the night. He smelt of sweat, horse, soot and rain, engulfing her and making her feel as if she was going to drown in him. With a huff, Arya let her weight fall completely against Gendry’s chest, head beneath his chin, and he did not object. It felt… nice, nice to lean against someone, to let the stress leave her body if only briefly, to feel the warmth of another person. She could feel his heart beat but it felt off, out of tune unlike Tom’s harp. It did not slow and did not regain its normal melody but Arya liked it all the same. It reminded her of when Jon would let her sit on his horse, trotting around the yard as he laughed, Bran's voice joining in with Robb's own chuckle.

But… not quite. Not the same.

_“From there to here, from here to there, all black and brown and covered in hair, when he smelt her in the summer air, the bear, the bear, and the maiden fair!”_

Arya suddenly remembered another song, distant like the flicker of a candle from a dream, about a forest maiden and a lord, declaring their love for each other despite their obvious differences. _If only it was that easy._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i sat down and wrote this chapter in the space of roughly five hours but it still feels rushed. This chapter is mostly a rehash of the chapter in the book but with a few Gendrya bits thrown in along with a few other extras.
> 
> also, this fic is officially two years old. 
> 
> wild.


	17. Arya Stark of Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amidst the war ravaging the land of Westeros, a lone Stark must find her way home, to her true family.
> 
> And yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I do not own any of the characters, places or story lines (unless stated otherwise) mentioned in the work; they all belong to their owner: G.R.R Martin  
> \- Mostly original dialogue.  
> \- A work of fiction previously known as "The Bull and the Wolf."  
> \- comments are very much appreciated!  
> \- for any more information, check out my profile!

_**Chapter Seventeen.** _

Hot Pie had a good singing voice, something which Arya was sure of. He could not hold a sword with his weak arms, but his throat was able to wield a tune better than most men, if not all men she knew living or dead. He rode behind Gendry and Arya, bellowing his voice as high as he could, startling the birds, reeds and dead men alike as Tom played along, his harp humming a melody that was distant to Arya though somewhat familiar, but trying to remember was like attempting hold onto grains of sands on an open palm during a wet, wild storm.

A memory came forth, she was eight and Sansa was singing at the top of her voice, her perfect cheekbones blooming like red roses and her flames pulled into a braid; a beauty could not be described to Sansa, a goddess more befitting. Her lily white skin untouched and unbeaten and her ocean blue eyes, not yet violated by the fearful storms that many men could not weather no matter their skill. Arya couldn’t remember the last time she sang, not properly. If she were good, then Sansa would see fit to try and best her younger sister or claw her from the light, smiling all the while with lips rouged from blood; or maybe she was absolutely terrible and would confirm everyone’s disappointment.

It was surreal, what was happening; the singing startled her more than she would have liked to admit. Arya almost thought to pinch herself, wanting to nip at the too thinly stretched receding paleness that was tugging itself over her too frail bones. Bran used to always manage to find a piece and nick it, much to Arya’s annoyance. There was more than one occasion where she would leave the dinner table only for her arms and legs to be covered in blue and purple bruises, like soft petals during the summer being kissed by the gentle snow fall. But the aches in her muscles, the fog of sheer exhaustion and the pang of the all too familiar hunger had settled there to remind her that everything was real, that _she_ was real.

Squab, Arya had given them as a name. They didn’t believe her. Arya was floundering, trying to grasp control of the situation with her broken fingers and scattered mind but realised that she was out of her depth; she was not raised to lead men or give orders, at least, not orders that were not to do with how to run a castle. Swinging swords and stabbing men were much more difficult than stitching cloth and slipping the tip of the needle through thread, like knife through butter. Without time spent on what to do or where to go, Arya was left to her own thoughts – something which could be more dangerous and cut deeper than any weapon. _Fear cuts deeper than swords._ Arya didn’t know what to do, or where to go, and her hands were curled into fists, the nails she had chewed in starvation nipping at her palm.

Arya didn’t trust them, couldn’t spare it to be honest, and she tried to think of ways to escape once they arrived at the so called inn they were promised. Maybe jump out a window when excusing herself in order to take a piss, or maybe run when checking on the horses. She wondered how far she would get before Anguy put an arrow through her heart. As if hearing her thoughts, the archer turned and gave her a wicked smile which Arya returned as a scowl, none too happy at the boy’s all too happy attitude. Maybe she could slit their throats, slip the blunt edge of her sword into their bellies and let them bleed out like pigs. Then she remembered Yoren, the sharp lip of the sword falling deep into his neck, blood spurting and dribbling, eyes bulging and the scarlet liquid choking him with its red fingers. Her own fingers were pale, with blood caught beneath her nails and staining the cuffs of her tunic.

Tom’s harp changed its tune and the song ended, only for it to be woven into an entirely new one, one that Arya was sure Sansa would have known. Despite the music and the smiles, Arya felt unnerved, maybe because of the fact that Lem was glaring at her beneath his helmet, or maybe it was because that Tom was trying far too hard to be nice. A man could smile while slitting your throat.

Gendry was silent, too, but then again, he always was, with the frown on his face deepening and a crease forming between his knotted eyebrows. Arya tried to stay still in the saddle, to not shuffle around and brush her body up against his; he was so _warm_ , like a hearth, and beneath the smell of sweat and dirt, there was something more: rain, soot and pine. Her eyes focused on the soft, twitching ears of the horse, trying desperately to not have her mind wander on the arms that were around her, brushing against her or the fact he was surrounding her senses, making feel as if she was drowning. It was ridiculous, _stupid,_ to let these thoughts fester in her mind, weeds that had taken root and ran too deep, making it too difficult to pull them out. Her throat was dry because of the lack of water, _not_ because her back was pressed against his chest and she could _feel_ the muscles against her. Heart hammering beneath her fragile twig like ribs because of fear of the situation, _not_ because his wrist had brushed over her thigh when he took grip of the reins again, stretching his fingers to cast away the stiffness. Cheeks red because of the cold, _not_ because his breath was hot on her scalp and all she wanted to do was let her weight fall back onto him completely, letting all fear and anxiety flow from her taut muscles and too tired bones.

Being left alone to her thoughts was a bad idea and they were flourishing, delighted at the brief moment of peace to tangle her in their silky web.

There was a shame in Arya’s heart, as well as guilt, for having such thoughts about a boy, let alone her friend. Her Septa always said such thoughts were wrong and shouldn’t be encouraged. Maybe there was something wrong with her? She could barely look Gendry in the eye without feeling a heat in her cheeks anymore because those thoughts, those _damned_ thoughts, floated to the surface to torment her, in a voice that sounded far too much like Sansa in her singsong voice. Arya’s fingers curled further inwards into her palm, the teeth of her nails grazing on her palm as a lump formed in her throat. She knew if her hands were to unfurl, dark weeping crescent moons would have risen in her hand as if it were the night sky.

Arya was uncomfortably hot beneath her layered clothing, something she had been grateful for if it were night and cold, but now all she wanted to do was toss the rags away and let the wind rush over her skin, cooling her down with soft caresses. There was an urge to place her hands against her hot cheeks in order to cool them and rid herself of the pink hue but she stopped herself. Her eyes stared at Gendry’s hands; they were large, littered with scars and calloused skin that was rough to touch. They gripped the leather rains tightly, and incorrectly, resting against the tip of the saddle, which was between Arya’s legs. She had touched his hands, had held them even, before realising how much she liked to do so.

Her lips turned downwards at her thoughts, an echo in her mind of when her Septa told her a woman should only ever do such intimate things with her husband and her husband only. But her Septa had never married, so how would she have ever known about such thoughts? Even then, who was a woman who would never marry to tell another younger woman on what she should and should not think about men? Sansa had given kisses to Theon Greyjoy when he would beg for them and _she_ wasn’t sinful. Were Arya’s thoughts about Gendry really that wrong?

Giving her head a shake, greasy strands of hair flying about her, Arya scattered the thoughts and firmly clamped a lock on them, pushing them to the back of her mind and refusing to ever let them see the light of day. All that mattered was getting home, getting to Robb and Mother, getting back to Winterfell, to Bran and Rickon. Maybe even to Jon Snow, with his smile, smelling of soap and lavender.

_And yet…_

The Trident gurgled and slurped as the odd group made their way towards the supposed inn, catching on the riverbank and running over well-worn rocks that were there longer than any man. Arya’s eyes briefly watched the dance as gentle waves rushed and lapped over one another, desperate to win whatever race they were in, just as she had once done with Syrio’s voice cracking over her like the wooden swords they used. For a moment, she let herself entertain the thought of maybe swimming away to freedom but she doubted Gendry could swim; he could barely ride a horse as it was. Hot Pie and his horse lingered behind Arya and Gendry, almost oblivious to the severity of the situation. Gendry wasn’t, she knew, for he had his jaw clenched and the skin over his knuckles was stretched to a pale yellow.

Maybe if they got away, they could survive in the woods, needing and trusting only each other. It was a silly dream, made out of roses and silk that could have been straight from a song, but it was one Arya let herself sink into for only a second. She had never liked the happy stories or songs, she always preferred the ones filled with war and death and fighting. Now it seemed that the world was filled with it, overflowing and bursting at the seams to keep itself together. The ground beneath them became clearer, more worn down, as if many travellers had taken the road before.

“Ah! Here we are!” Tome exclaimed, a smile sharper than a knife on his lips as he turned his gaze to Arya, a smugness that Arya did not like on his face. “Just as I promised.”

The inn wasn’t what Arya imagined it to be; it wasn’t run down or filled with untrustworthy men menacingly sharpening their knives while glaring at the new arrivals. Gendry pulled on the reins, slowing the horse’s walk down to dissect the appearance of the inn. It looked… friendly, with the smoke from the single chimney curling in around itself until it disappeared from view into the sky. It certainly didn’t appear like a place that held criminals and outlaws, nor the type that killed unfortunate passer-byers who would find their corpses dumped in a basement, free of any valuables that ranged from gold to boots. Inns held no happy memories for her; the last time she had been in one King Robert had sentenced Sansa’s direwolf to death and held a mock trial for the younger Stark sister, as if she had killed someone rather than maim his craven son. All that seemed like a million years ago, when things were so much simpler. As such, Arya was uncertain as Tom and Lem walked without hesitation towards the inn, while Anguy slipped his bow from his back and passed a wink and a smile Arya’s way. She angled her body, her shoulder brushing against Gendry’s chest as she looked to his eyes, to see if he shared the same doubts as she.

His eyes met hers, blue and storming, and his lips were pursed but they were trapped, for Anguy had his bow and Hot Pie was all too willing to jump from the horse and bumble inside, his fat body waddling from side to side. Gendry was just about as hesitant as she, if not more. Resigned to their fate, Arya let out a sign and turned back in the saddle, back pressed against Gendry’s chest once more, unconsciously seeking any form of comfort.

“We don’t really have a choice,” Arya murmured to him, feeling him shift behind her, preparing to get down from the horse. They still had the swords but they were old, rusting on the once sharp edges and were more likely to shatter into a million pieces the first time being used in battle. Gendry’s heat from behind her was gone and his feet were on the ground with a thump, hands working with the reins to slip them over the horse’s head in order to lead it further towards a possible death trap. The horse had nothing to fear; healthy animals like it were often more coveted than gold during times of war.

“I know we don’t,” Gendry replied in a low tone, as if the trees were listening, leaves rustling over one another in whispers to tell their enemies, all the way to King’s Landing. Arya’s legs protested, not wanting to be used for a long time and her feet ached so terribly. She doubted she would be able to run even if she needed to. Her legs dangled without the support of the stirrups and after much debating, with another sigh bleeding past her cracked lips, Arya swung her leg over, resting it side by side with the other. Gendry tied the reins, just as she taught him until he got it perfectly, and turned to her, an emotion she could only described as uncertainty in his eyes. “But if we run off now, who knows what they’ll do to Hot Pie, or what they’ll do to us if we get caught. There might be more of them waiting out there, we don’t know.”

He stood in front of her now, only having to tilt his head up slightly as she still sat on the saddle, her bare feet aching and toes curled inwards to fight the cold. Her boots lay forgotten in the shack, lost without an owner and she berated herself for being so stupid as to forget them. They were getting too small for her anyways, pinching uncomfortably at her toes and doing more harm than good, but having would have saved her the pain of having her feet frozen. She bent her head slightly, as to not look down at her nose at him which she had seen Sansa and, on occasion, her mother do when talking to someone they felt was below them.

“I know,” Arya agreed solemnly, too unlike being the ten and three year old she really was. “But still, we shouldn’t linger, just in case they try to kill us in our sleep.”

Gendry gave a nod as his reply, reaching up to run a hand through the mess of curls and knots of his hair, the strands catching on his long eyelashes; his hair was far too long, black wispy fingers curling around his neck and caressing his jaw that was covered with the thick, wiry hair of his beard. Deciding that should they continue to linger any longer, it would raise Tom’s suspicion and result in him keeping an eye on them both, Arya moved to jump of the horse, Gendry stepping forward to help her with his hands on her developing waist, easing her descent but the feel of the twigs and branches against her bare feet made her wince. Gendry’s hands were warm, seeping in through the material of her jerkin and almost burning her. Her own fingers had found their way wrapped around his wrist, though they did not meet, in order to steady her body and not topple forward. It reminded her of when she was in Winterfell, when Jon would help her off the horse with her face red from the wind and hair a mess. Her feet slowly got used to the uneven terrain and she almost winced at the sight of how dirty she looked; truly she more so fit the role of a bastard orphan than the daughter of the Lord and Lady of Winterfell. Maybe Arya Stark was somewhere beneath all the layers of dirt and grime.

A rustling sound caught Arya’s attention and she turned, eyes settling on a small boat tied up but in the water, the water licking the wood; it was small but big enough to hold more than one person. It even looked stable enough to withstand the currents long enough to get to Riverrun. Arya’s grip around Gendry’s wrist tightened as the other hand went to grab a hold of his sleeve, gripping to it as if it were a lifeline.

“Gendry, look!” she whispered, eyes glued to the boat. “They have a boat! We could take it and use the current to get to Riverrun.” It would cut their journey down drastically, however, and there was no telling if they’d even make it to Riverrun safely from the sight of bandits and murderers. Not to mention, she only knew very little about sailing and she wouldn’t put her hopes on Gendry knowing much about it either.

“Have you ever even sailed before?” he was doubtful, turning his eyes away from the boat to Arya, who was becoming less hopeful as the seconds trickled by. Her grip on his wrist loosened somewhat, the frown that had been on her lips for as long as she could remember slowly returning.

“You put the sail up and the wind helps to push,” she stated, remembering it from a book long ago in Winterfell, the books around her smelling of dust and dried ink, creaking from being opened after so long closed and shut away from the prying eyes of man.

“And if you’re against the current?”

“Then you use the oars,” Arya huffed, whatever hope she felt receding, taking her hand that was around his wrist back an crossing her arms over her chest, now annoyed at the fact Gendry had seemed all too ready to try and puncture her ideas of escape. The might be a possibility, however small, that Tom didn’t mean them any harm but Arya quickly pushed the thought away. All around her were enemies or potential enemies. She could only trust Gendry, only rely on Gendry. Hot Pie was too air headed and every word he spoke was a waste of wind. For all they knew, he could be telling Tom and Lem and Anguy about how they escaped Harrenhal. The coin in her pocket burned; as if angry she had thrown away her chance to avenge her father’s death. The voice of Jaqen H’ghar, who wasn’t really Jaqen H’ghar, echoed in her mind, taunting her and the all too vivid memory of his lips on hers.

“It’s too risky,” Gendry spoke, shaking his head with his curls following, glittering and unfurling in the sunlight. “With the three of us, the boat could tip over. Neither Hot Pie and me can swim and the current would wash you away.”

Arya almost stamped her foot but instead pursed her lips and bit down on her tongue to prevent herself from retorting. Sometimes she forgot he didn’t just brood and frown. Her eyes darted to the boat, longing in her heart and the briefest thought to jump into it and sail to Riverrun herself, but she couldn’t, she couldn’t leave Gendry, not after all they’ve been through together. Not when he’s protected her as much as she protected him. _The lone wolf dies but the pack survives,_ Eddard Stark whispered, and Arya could almost imagine the feel of his hand on her head and her arms around him. A ghost of an old life that seemed too much like a dream to Arya now.

With a sigh spilling past her cracked lips, Arya looked around the stable; she was glad to see it was empty save for the two horses that belonged to her, Gendry and Hot Pie with fresh straw. Still, Arya felt unsure, paranoid that while they ate, someone would sneak off with her only chance of returning to Robb and Mother. Turning back to Gendry, Arya spoke.

“I think one of us should stay with the horses,” she spoke, her voice attempting a whisper but boots against would startled and Arya turned, only to see it was Tom standing and smiling at her. His smile reminded her of the cut throats in Flea Bottom.

“Oh, there’s no need for that now, Squab,” he laughed. His harp was nowhere to be seen but the knives littered on his belt were in plain sight, teeth catching on the rays of the sun and throwing them her way. Arya and Gendry stood close, safety in numbers, and they both glared at the older man though his smile didn’t falter. “There’s plenty to eat for all of us, I should think.”

A hand on her arm, warm and familiar, garnered her attention and she turned to see Gendry bending his head down slightly so his words her for only her. She could smell the grass and rain from him.

“I’ll stay here with the horses,” he said to her, hand still on her arm. “Come get me when you’ve had something to eat.”

 _Or if something happens_ , lingered on the end of his sentence and Arya could see it in his eyes; she close enough to see the light brown freckles on his nose. Tom still stood there, eyes sharp as his grin, and Arya turned her gaze to him before turning back to Gendry, her own hand reaching up to place itself on his. Arya was unsure of splitting up, unsure of having him out of her sight lest something might happen. Hot Pie was inside with his own sword and she had one too but Gendry would be here, out of her sight.

“Are you sure?” Maybe she could bring the food out to him, eat together with eyes around them to make sure no one would try to make off with the horses. Her hand was squeezing him, their heads bent close together and voices dropped low. It reminded her of how when her mother and father would talk in hushed whispers during their dinners or when in public. A secret, only for them and the rest of the world did not exist. Sometimes, Arya and Jon would do the same, when they were younger and in the godswood, whispering to one another, hands cupping their mouths. Bran could never keep a secret but Jon would never tell anyone. He was someone who could take a secret to his grave – even if it was something silly like how she told him it was her who ate all the lemoncakes, leaving none for Sansa.

Gendry gave a nod, fingers on her arm tightening, hoping to give the Stark girl some reassurance. It didn’t but Arya trusted Gendry so she let herself walk away, the feel of the earth beneath her bare feet no longer an annoyance as Tom placed a hand on her shoulder to lead her inside. The feel of his hand on her made Arya’s skin crawl and she wanted nothing more than to grab one of the knives that were on Tom’s belt and to cut his fingers off. Her own dagger was still covered in blood, flaking off and staining the silver steel.

It was warm inside and Arya nearly cried out for she couldn’t remember the last time she had felt such warmth. The bare wooden floors were worn down from being walked on by many different feet throughout the years and it was kind to her mud covered ones, far less harsh than the twigs and stones that were digging into her soles. There was a fire at the end of the common room that lacked patrons, save for Anguy, Lem and a tall, homely woman who was staring at the man with the yellow cloak, hands on her large hips with her thin lips pressed together in an unamused manner. Her ratty, thin hair was messily pulled up with greasy strands falling around her very round face.

“Honestly, Lem, what 'ave I told you about trackin' in mud on my floors? I’ve told you a dozen times to take off your damned boots!” her voice was shrill and sharp to the ear. She was nothing like Arya’s mother, whose voice was soft and gentle, but cold as ice when she was Lady Catelyn. Years in the North had made icicles form on her bones and voice. The tall warrior didn’t reply for a moment, but then he pulled his cloak back and reached behind. For a brief, startling moment Arya thought he meant to brandish a weapon and stab the woman in the throat but instead, he pulled out a dead duck, a red, bloody hole where the heart should have been.

“We shot a duck,” was his simple reply as the woman scoffed, taking it from him though her temper had cooled a bit.

“You mean _Anguy_ shot the duck and you lugged it around with you,” she retorted with a very unladylike snort. The archer threw a wicked smile and a wink towards the tall woman, much in the same manner her had done with Arya.

“The duck wasn’t all we got on our way up,” Tom piped up, hand still on Arya’s shoulder as the smile on his face turned less threatening and more real, though Arya still didn’t trust him. The woman turned her attention from Lem and the duck, buggy and water blue eyes landing on Tom before falling to Arya. Arya grew self-conscious, not able to maintain eye contact with the tall woman as a shame grew in her, one old and scarred. It was one she would feel burning her on the inside whenever her mother or Septa would scold her for acting like a wild wolf, her dress ripped and her hair a mess, covered in head to toe in mud.

“And what’s this? Pickin' up orphan girls, are we?” she said, eyes narrowing at the sight of Arya’s bare, dirty feet on her floor. “What’s your name, girl?”

_Nan. Arry. Arya Stark, Horseface, Underfoot. No one._

“Squab,” was Arya’s small reply, her eyes darting up to meet the woman’s eyes, which had turned softer with each trickling second passing by. It was pity that was in her eyes and Arya wanted to vomit at the sight. She didn’t need her pity, didn’t want it. But the ache in her stomach and the creak in her bones made Arya swallow her pride and she began to play the new role of Squab for the woman.

“Well, _Squab,_ I’m Sharna and you best get inside and wipe your feet. I don’t need my floors more dirty than they already are,” with that she tossed a glare to Lem who remained unabashed at the taunt.

Arya stepped in further to the inn, reveling in the warmth and the ache in her stomach over took common sense as she fell into a chair next to Hot Pit who had an ugly smile on his ugly face. All Arya could think of was Gendry and whether he was still out there, unharmed. Her teeth captured her bottom lip and chewed on it, the tender skin nearly falling apart. Lem sat down at another table, taking off his boots as Tom sat opposite her and Hot Pie, Anguy taking the seat next to him. The archer always seemed to be either smiling or sneering as he removed his bow from his back and leaned into the chair, fingers tapping against the wood.

“D’you got any lemons? I feel like it would taste mighty with some lemons,” Anguy suggested to Sharna, eyes bright and red hair tousled. The duck swung and flopped as Sharna placed her meaty hands on her hips, glaring at Anguy.

“And where’d I get lemons from? Where'd you think you are? Dorne? Bloody fool, you can either eat it as it is with rabbit, or you don’t eat at all,” Sharna snapped before turning her head and shouting. “Husband! Husband, get your arse down here and hang this duck!”

Not one minute later, after the pattering of boots on wood, did a man appear, wiping his hands on a very dirty apron. He was small and sickly looking and Arya hoped that he wouldn’t the one to make the food for she did not fancy catching any illnesses on her journey home. “Quit your bloody shouting, woman; what’d you want this time?”

The way they spoke to one another was far unlike the way Arya’s own mother and father would speak to each other, which was with softness and tenderness. Arya dropped her gaze for a moment to examine the spots on the table; there were flecks of tree knots and scorch marks in rings from hot plates being placed down over the years. She traced it briefly with her index finger, her feet swinging back and forth slightly in the chair.

“Go hang this duck,” she ordered and he obeyed, disappearing out back to do as he told before she turned back to the visitors, eyes on Hot Pie and Arya, watery blue eyes darting back and forth between the two. “Now, I don’t normally serve ale to children –” Arya wanted to protest that she was anything but a child; children didn’t kill men as she had. “– but we’ve got naught else. So I’m afraid you’ll have to take what you’re offered. The boy will bring them out to ye.” Eyes lingering on Arya for a moment longer, Sharna turned with a swish of her skirts.

It was silent for a moment; Lem standing to place his filthy yellow cloak on a peg and Anguy placing his quiver of arrows on the floor beside him, bow hanging off the back of his chair as he swung on the hind legs, arm draped behind him as Tom stood, chair scraping against the floor, and got his harp much to Arya’s dismay. He retook his seat and strummed the harp with his fingers, mirth dancing in his eyes. Arya wanted the food to come quickly so she could check up on Gendry. She didn’t want to linger in this place any longer than was necessary. Sharna may look like she wouldn’t poison their food but she was unsure of trusting the woman to keep her and her friends safe from the men that had brought them here.

“ _A lovely inn on a forest road…_ ” began Tom, voice low as though he did not wish to be heard, his hands stalling, plucking each chord to see which one would suit before settling on one. “ _The innkeep’s wife was as plain as a toad._ ”

Anguy reached forward and slapped Tom’s arm, all the while attempting to smother a smile on his lips as Lem shook his head, always serious and unsmiling. Unable to stop herself, Arya felt her lips quirk up slightly at Tom’s song, catching the singer’s attention and he gave her a wink but did not continue on with his tune.

“If she hears us and don’t give us any rabbit or stew, it’ll be on your head, Tom,” warned Lem with a dark look on his face, the thought of not being allowed dinner was as severe a crime as any. With the pain knotting within her stomach, Arya almost agreed with him.

Arya gazed around her, taking in her strange albeit rather familiar surroundings. All inns were rather the same, with the same wooden floors, and the same wooden tables and chairs. She remembered how the inn her family and she had been in when King Robert ordered the death of Lady and when Mycah, the butcher’s boy, had been butchered, run down and slung over the Hound’s saddle like he was a pig and not a human being. The memory made Arya’s stomach turn and her mouth turn dry, her tongue turning to cotton as she tried to remember Mycah as he had been, not what he was now: a skeleton in the ground for only maggots to see and touch.

 But it was strange; she couldn’t remember him, not really, for they had known each other for but a few hours, when she had seen him with his sticks as though they were swords. _She_ had her own sword, hidden beneath gowns of blue and red silk and ribbons, a secret from Jon Snow, a piece of him for her always to hold and have. But one couldn’t hold a sword and not expect to get cut. There was no warmth or love in silver steel. _Every step and every hour brings me closer to him, closer to home._ Maybe she could be like brave Danny Flint, cutting her hair and leaving behind the dresses she was shoved into for black and steel, if only to see Jon. Jon would protect her and she could protect him.

But she had Gendry now, too. Gendry didn’t care if she wore a dress or if she was covered in mud. He didn’t care if she was Squab or Nan or Arry or Arya Stark. He didn’t care that she had killed a man, had been covered in his blood. _Or maybe he had but just didn’t say anything._ No. No, he didn’t care. He _didn’t._ He had stayed with her all this time, had never questioned her without reason, had trusted her and followed her lead. Gendry was her friend. Arya could trust him, just as she trusted Jon. They were in this together and she wasn’t going to let her thoughts eat her from the inside out. The tunic, too large and covered with browning blades of grass, had been his and he had given it to her. The smell of him was long gone but that didn’t stop of Arya from burying her nose into it at night, hoping to find some comfort from it. It didn’t matter for when she would wake, they would be a tangle of limbs, legs knotted together, arms desperately seeking warmth. They never acknowledged the action, never awoke with red cheeks and tripping tongues. Why deny each other a brief respite from the harsh and cold world? Sometimes, Arya didn’t want to fall back asleep, because when she would wake the spot beside her would be empty and she would be alone; she would keep her eyes open, struggling to stay awake as she tried to drink in everything, his smell, his warmth, the feel of him around her. She wouldn’t trade it for even the softest bed with silken sheets.

The sight of a cup being placed in front of her tore Arya from her thoughts and she blinked the mist from her eyes, the daydreams she was indulging herself in scattering as she turned to see a boy, maybe two or three years older than her. She stared curiously at the amber liquid, the thirst in her throat winning as she took the tankard in her hand, turning to see Hot Pie grab his with glee, lips wrapping around the lip of his own cup and taking a gulp. There was no flinch or outward sign of disgust on his face at the taste and Arya, gathering what courage she had, tilted her tankard back, tentatively waiting for it to hit her tongue. When it did, Arya scrunched her face up but let it wash over her mouth, falling down her throat, warm and watery. It was nothing like the spiced wine she would be allowed to sip from at the table back in Winterfell, or the whiskey Robb let her have a taste of once, which had left her spluttering and red faced as he laughed. But it was nice, far better than the water she would drink from streams or puddles.

Tom, Anguy and Lem took theirs with equal glee as Hot Pie and took a mouthful before Tom raised his above his head, that smile Arya hated back on his lips.

“To the King!”

“To his Grace!” Anguy chimed in, raising his cup above his head.

“All fuckin' twelve o’ them,” was Lem’s reply. Arya didn’t join in nor did she raise her cup, placing it back down on the table, not wanting to over indulge and end up drunk which could allow them to attack her. Hot Pie didn’t seem all too worried as he continued to take large gulps of the amber liquid. Arya wanted to tell Husband to hurry up with the food so she could check on Gendry outside. Too much time had passed for her and she was growing more and more anxious by the second that passed by. At her thought, Husband entered, wiping his hands on his apron with a frown on his sickly face.

“There’s a strange man with strange horses in the stable,” he spoke, voice rather raspy. He didn’t seem all too pleased at the prospect of having horses in his stables, especially ones he didn’t know. So he had seen Gendry, who seemed relatively unharmed. Relief swept through Arya, like water over rocks, and the tension in her bones faded away slightly, allowing her to relax that bit more. She took another sup of her ale, savouring the taste, as Tom nodded at Husband.

“Aye, they’re with us and these two,” he jerked his tankard at Hot Pie and Arya, ale slipping over the lip of the cup and landing on the table beneath. “Them horses are far better than the ones you had back there before you gave them away.”

Husband scowled at Tom’s words, obviously none too pleased at the singer’s words as he gave a huff, thin arms crossing over his equally thin chest.

“I didn’t just ‘give them away’; I sold them and for a good price too. And you lot were supposed to get them back for us.” He spoke in accusing tone at the three men but Lem was too focused on his ale and Anguy was smirking while Tom waved his hands, as if pushing the words aside. _So they_ are _outlaws_ , Arya thought, one hand wrapped around her tankard and the other making its way beneath the table to land on the forgotten dagger she had on her belt. Drawing a sword would garner too much attention but she could easily slip the dirk from its place at her waist and slide the edge across Tom’s throat if need be.

“Oh? Well, they ain’t ever come our way,” was Tom’s reply as Lem gave a grunt in agreement. _They aren’t very good outlaws,_ Arya commented with a frown. Still, the grip on her dagger did not lessen and she was careful when taking sips of her drink, trying not to gulp it down and sate her thirst. She spun the tankard with the tips of her fingers on table, listening intently to the conversation at hand.

“You could have taken them yourself,” Lem commented, letting the tankard drop to the table as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, catching a dribble of ale that was rolling down his beard. Husband gave a scoff, rolling his eyes as if the idea was ludicrous.

“What? With only myself and the boy? The wife would have had more of a chance but she was up helping that young lass Fern giving birth.” And then his gaze turned sharp, accusing. “And I know it was one o’ you that made that girl’s belly swell, and don’t pretend it wasn’t. Don’t act all innocent, Tom, I know it was more likely you with that damned harp o’ yours. Best I snap it over my knee and save many a girl heartbreak from the damned thing.” _If he isn’t going to, I will._

In response, Tom gave the object in question a strum, feigning shock at the accusation. “I would never do such a thing! Besides, it was Anguy here she fancied – you shoulda heard the shite she said – _Oh, can I touch your bow? It’s so hard and smooth; can I give it a pull?_ ” Anguy snorted into his tankard but Arya could see a dusting of pink on his pale, freckled cheeks. Arya would have laughed at the archer’s misfortune until Tom turned to her with a teasing smile. “You watch out there, Squab, the man’s a bad a seducer as they come.”

It was her turn to feel warm in the cheeks as she looked into her tankard to avoid looking Anguy in the eyes at Tom’s tease.

“You, Anguy, fuck, even _Lem_ , makes no matter which. You’re to blame as much as me. They was three. What was one supposed to do against three?”

Arya turned out, letting herself get lost in the ripples of her ale. Her thoughts once again drifted to the boat outside; sailing wouldn’t take as long as riding the horses and it could be safer than travelling in the woods. Gendry had voiced his worries of all the possible things that could go wrong but Arya wanted, needed, to see the possibility that it might just work and she could make it home to Robb and to mother in less than two days. The boat would save them a lot of trouble and they could travel through the night. She could teach Hot Pie and Gendry how to work the sails, though she only remembered from what had been written on yellow, dust covered parchment so many years ago. There would be no way they would allow them to take the boat, unless they gave the horses up. Arya bit her lip, unsure, as if all else failed and they couldn’t work the sails, then the horses were their only salvation – _her_ salvation.

Maybe if they could trick Tom into thinking that they weren’t going to run and then take off in the middle of the night, when everyone was asleep.  Once having gotten their fill of food, they could take off for Riverrun before they knew it and be there by the next day. The thought filled Arya with hope and a lump was in her throat at the thought of being with Robb and Mother, of being safe, was unthinkable, almost something out of a fairy tale, like the ones Old Nan would tell Sansa. Arya grew wistful, almost imagining her mother and brother’s faces when seeing Arya as she was, her hair cut brutally and covered in dirt while wearing boy clothes. _Would they even want me as I am?_ She could convince Robb to let Gendry fight and become a knight. All different scenarios played out in her mind, of coming home with her mother holding onto her so tight and her gentle hands running through her daughter’s hair, to Robb and Mother turning her away. No, she wouldn’t let herself get caught up in these fantasies. There was only one way to find out whether they would want her or not, and taking the boat would speed up the inevitable reunion.

The sight of bowls of bread being placed down in front of her stirred Arya from her dazed thoughts and she blinked at the sight, almost shocked that there was actual food being placed down in front of her. How long had it been, since she had seen so much food on one plate and it was for her? Her stomach was screaming at her to reach out and grab one and that she did, hand shaking as her palm encased one of the warm loaves ( _warm bread_ – how long had it been since Arya had been allowed such a luxury?) and brought it to her mouth, eyes unblinking as the smell wafted up her nose, bringing forth the memory of how she and Bran used to sneak into the kitchen to steal cookies and sweet things while giggling. Hot Pie was glumly chewing on his with a scrunched up face.

“That’s bad bread,” he commented. Arya let her teeth sink into it and thought it to be the best bread in all of Westeros. “It’s burned and too tough to chew.”

“Tastes better when there’s some stew to sop up,” Lem commented as he tore through his own loaf, specks of the bread flying from his mouth and crumbs catching on his beard.

“No it isn’t – it’s just less likely to break your teeth,” Anguy laughed but chewed on the warm bread with a quirk on his lips. Husband glared at all three men who spoke as Arya finished her loaf and quickly darted her hand forward to grab another. _I wonder if I can bring any out to Gendry without anyone noticing…_

“Shut up, the lot o’ ye,” Husband spat, turning to Hot Pie with hands on his hips and eyes narrowing. “I ain’t no baker, and I’d like to see you make any better.”

“I could!” exclaimed Hot Pie, as if shocked that any would dare to question his baking abilities. “It’s quite easy, really; you kneaded the dough too much and that’s what makes it too hard chew.” Hot Pie set off, rambling about all his baking techniques while giving advice. Husband grew less annoyed and rather more intrigued by the fat boy’s talking, trying to soak up the words.

Arya’s stomach threatening grew more tight as she realised she needed to pace herself with eating and reached to take a sip of ale from her tankard, pausing for a break as she did not want to end up vomiting what little she had eaten over Sharna’s floor. She doubted the homely woman would be understanding or helpful if Arya threw up. Letting herself rest, squashing her desire to take another loaf, and laid back in the chair as Husband and Hot Pie talked; a chair scraped over the floor and Arya looked to see Tom pulling his chair next to hers Anguy following so that he was opposite her.

“Squab, this is for you,” Tom spoke, reaching into his pocket and placing a folded up piece of yellow parchment in front of her. Arya’s eyebrows knotted together as she reached forward to grab the paper, unfurling it to the sight of messy and shaky writing: _TWO GOLD DRAGONS FOR TWO HORSES – TOM OF SEVENSTREAMS_. Arya stared at it, flipping it over but the back was blank and she turned to Tom, confused.

“What is this?”

“Listen, Squab, we need those horses, and this –” he tapped the parchment in Arya hand with his finger. “– this is your payment.”

Arya blinked at his words, growing all the more confused. “But… there’s no money. And they’re _our_ horses.”

“I know you didn’t buy them, girl, but we’re prepared to pay for them. As for no money, well… sorry about that, but after the war is done, we mean to give you the money and you can keep that as proof that we owe you. You have my word – as a king’s man.” _Which king? There’s only one good king and you don’t support him._

Arya scowled and crumpled the paper in her hand, standing quickly to her feet with the chair hitting the back of her knees, the screech of the chair on the ground halting Hot Pie’s and Husband’s conversation and drawing all eyes to her. _Outlaws, liars, thieves, that’s all they are._ Everyone was watching her; Lem, Anguy and Tom narrowed their eyes at her, Lem’s eyes briefly darting to the two blades at her belt. Hot Pie was confused, his piggy eyes darting from Tom, to Arya, and to Tom again. Sharna had re-entered and she was squinting at the scene, a lumpy frown on her face. She knew, she just _knew_ this was going to happen.

“You’re no king’s men,” Arya spat. King Robert was a fat drunk who whored around and had no honour like her father had. What good were the words of his men? “You’re robbers, thieves.” _Murderers, too._ They wouldn’t carry around so many blades if they weren’t.

_But I am one, too._

“A real robber would have slit your throat and stolen the horse while you bled out,” Tom spoke slowly, as if trying to defuse the situation and calm her down. “It’s not for us that we want your horses, girl, it’s for the realm – for the king. Would you deny the king?”

_The king is dead! He’s dead! His son sits on his stupid throne with his stupid crown! The current king took my father and I would do more than deny him! I would slit his throat so deep his head would hang from his neck by a thread!_

But Arya’s tongue could not form the words and she was caught, caught between wanting to run and shout for Gendry or trying to barter with Tom. Her tongue darted across her lips as her fingers curled inwards into her palm. She needed to be Squab, needed to comply and to not let the temper of a wolf over take her. Arya swallowed, throat dry again despite the ale she had drank, and took a breath.

“The boat,” was her reply. “In exchange for the horses, I want the boat. You can keep your damned two gold dragons; all I want is the boat.” She threw the parchment on the table, the material fluttering and landing next to Tom’s elbow face down. Tom’s eyebrows shot up his forehead and Arya could see the amusement in his eyes. _I need to get Gendry; I need to make sure they haven’t done anything to him._ Each moment lingering in the inn was bringing closer the chance that she may need to draw her sword. She didn’t think Sharna would be too happy about blood stains on her floor.

A shout sounded in her ear and she turned eyes wide. The door burst open and there was Gendry, fright shadowing on his pale face.

“Riders! A dozen of them coming down the road!” his voice was shaky and all blood drained from Arya’s face. _No, no, no, no._ Terror was cutting its way through her as her heart began beating erratically beneath her fragile ribs. _Fear cuts deeper than swords, fear cuts deeper than swords._ Gendry made his way in towards the common room where Arya was standing, eyes darting about her face, checking for some unknown reason, as the panic in her began to swell.

What to do, what to do? They couldn’t run, not with the riders coming down the river road and not with the three men watching them. Arya’s hand twitched, wanting to land on the hilt of her dagger but knew that doing so would raise the alarm of the men in the room. As a substitute, she gripped Gendry’s sleeve, eyes trying to find some escape route; Gendry’s own hand found itself wrapped around her bicep, waiting for the Stark girl to speak or give an order but Arya couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. _No, no, no, this can’t be happening._ The three men were unfazed by the news of riders but Hot Pie, eyes taking in the panic of his companions, stood, nearly knocking over a pint of ale to Sharna’s dismay.

“There’s no need to be spillin’ ale all over my floor now!” Sharna scolded, taking steps forward to take the tankard off the table, before turning towards Arya, eyes drinking in the sight of Gendry with a few slow blinks of her buggy eyes, briefly darting to the hands that were wrapped around the other’s arm. “The rabbit’s comin’ soon enough so you can rest yourself now. No need to be workin’ yourself up. Whatever harm’s been done to you is over now so you can rest yourself. You’re with the king’s men now and the king’s men will protect you.”

_The king’s men are the reason we’re in this mess._

Arya didn’t listen to Sharna, didn’t take heed of her words, and instead let go of Gendry to pull her dagger from her belt. But as she had managed to free it, a large, sweaty hand pulled at her wrist tightly and rather painfully so that it was being held above her head. Lem was there, frowning and a threatening gleam in his eyes. Everything was spiralling down, crumbling and crashing like her world was made of ash and snow. _All I want is to go home… all I want is to see mother and Robb and Bran and Rickon. All I want is to see Jon. I want to see Sansa and hear her sing again._

“There’s no need for that now,” Lem warned and her began squeezing her wrist, twisting it so painfully that, despite her thinking she could withstand it, a yelp left her as the dagger clattered to the ground. _It hurts, it hurts_ , she thought but never would she admit it. It was like being back in Harrenhal, when she was weak and couldn’t fight back. When she had been Nan and had no Needle to pierce her enemies with.

“Let her go!” Gendry snapped, his hand pulling back before his fist slammed into Lem’s nose, the sheer force causing Lem to let go of Arya, nose broken and blood spurting, dribbling down his face, and stumbled on his feet before falling back. Tom and Anguy gave a shout but Arya didn’t stop to think about the pain in her wrist, only to reach across to grab her tankard and smash it into the side of the Archer’s face. Hot Pie stood, cowering, at the sight of the fight while Arya bent down and took hold of the dagger, not even hesitating to swipe the edge of the blade across Tom’s arm, causing the singer to let out a yell of pain.

“Run!” She told Gendry and Hot Pie, hand reaching out blindly to grab a hold of Gendry as Hot Pie tried to make his way around the table but Husband pulled his arm back and prevented the fat boy from escaping. Sharna was yelling, telling them to stop when Lem, one hand to his broken nose, tangled his legs in hers and Arya fell, hand slipping from Gendry’s as her head cracked on the floor. Lem was holding her ankles and was swearing, cursing at her to stop. But she wouldn’t listen; her feet were kicking, hitting his throat, his mouth, trying to break free. Her dagger lay in her palm and she tried to lean forward to jam the blade in his eyes but before she could Gendry was there, again, fist slamming into Lem’s face but the fear in his blue eyes was clear. The man beneath him tried throwing Gendry off but Gendry’s sloppy punches inhibited him from doing so. Arya scrambled to her feet, gripping the dagger and ready to pull Gendry off Lem when the sight of Anguy pointing an arrow at her made her pause. He wasn’t smirking and there was blood staining his mouth, smeared around his lips and chin with his cheek red and swelling.

Tom had a knife pressed against Gendry’s throat and Lem was writhing on the floor, holding his face but attempting to stand nonetheless, glaring at Gendry through the pain. Arya could feel the tears welling up, a culmination of the frustration, anger and all that she been through during the past few months. She was so _tired,_ so tired of having to fight, of having to push herself  to keep walking, to keep waking up without knowing if today would be the day someone would stick a knife in her belly. Arya was unravelling; whatever stitches she had made to keep herself together becoming undone, her bones and secrets becoming exposed. She was spilling, an ocean with wave after wave bursting forth in anger, in exhaustion. Her wrist burned, her body ached, the hole where her heart had been growing deeper and deeper, a never ending plunge into the dark abyss. She was ten and three, ten and three and she had already killed a man. Ten and three and she already taken a life. Ten and three and already the world had decided to dig a shallow grave to hold her broken and small body. Ten and three, and she was tired.

Anguy’s arrow did not waver and she only hoped that if he let it loose, that it would pierce where her heart should be and not cause her any pain.

Her eyes were misty, but she was unable to let them fall. When had she last cried? When had she the ability to feel such a deep emotion to incur such a response? The numbness that had been ghosting at the edges of her mind had settled in, a fog over her mind as the dagger in her hand fell to the floor Sharna cared so much about. The woman’s yelling didn’t reach Arya, all the Stark girl could think of was how she had failed, how she could never go home. Grey on blue, he stared at her, helpless; helpless due to the situation, or helpless because he could not comfort her, Arya didn’t know. _He wouldn’t understand. He would hate me if he heard my thoughts._ Lem stood, grabbing her by the scruff of the neck but it was hard, hard to fight back. All she could do was keep her eyes on Gendry’s, letting it be a last link to her stability. He was all she had and they were going to take him away from her.

She couldn’t look away, afraid that if she did he would be gone. Footsteps, voices, filled the tavern, quietening at the sight before them. Arya did not look away, not when men moved forward and took seats, blue, green and brown eyes casting over her. Arya did not look away, not when they ghosted past her, an old man with a limp. Arya did not look away from Gendry, trying to find solace in his storm blue eyes, so much like the summer sky and winter sea, as a Braavosi sell sword sat where she had been. Arya let herself slowly drown in the blue of his eyes, the inky blackness of his hair, the golden hue of his skin, as…

Her heart slammed in her throat and a voice, a voice she had lost so long ago resurfacing, in webs and dust, spoke. “Harwin?”

It was him, beneath the grim and the beard and the hardness of his face.

“Harwin?” He had led her pony around in Winterfell, would help her up on the saddle in front of Jon with a wink. _I won’t tell your mother._

“Harwin.” He turned, wondering if it was the wind and wisps calling his name. Maybe that’s what she was. She remembered him, drinking too much at feasts, letting her sip the spiced wine. Laughing and calling her Arya Underfoot. The tears were there and she was shattering on the inside. She was not a ghost, not a pretender. He was real and he was flesh and blood. “Harwin!” her voice was shrill, high, cracking like her heart and the tears were there. “Harwin! Harwin! It’s me! _It’s me_!” _Who, who am I?_ She had so, so, so many names. She was broken fragments stuck together, unsure of whom she really was.

He saw her then, confused and dazed, and she wondered if she had dreamed Arya Stark up. Everyone was watching, watching her thrash and desperately try to keep the tears from falling. He was there, in front of her, so close to touch, she could reach out. But what if her hand fell through and he was naught but a ghost, something sent by the Gods, Old and New, to taunt her? How much should she bend until she breaks? He stared at her, cold and calculating.

“Do I know you?”

“Harwin! Please, you know me! I escaped; I escaped with Gendry and Hot Pie from King’s Landing and from the Bloody Mummers! You used to lead my pony around the yard with Jon!”

His face, hard like ice, melted as if under the sun and he paled, eyes wide and mouth parted, in shock or disbelief or both, she did not know. His hand, shaking, reached out and grabbed Lem by the collar. “Let her go, Lem.”

“Why should I? She’s more trouble than she’s worth.”

A silence and then Harwin spoke.

“Because that’s the Hand’s daughter. That’s Arya Stark of Winterfell.”

No longer was Arya Stark able to hold the tears back and they fell as Lem wrenched his hand from her, as if burned by winter. She stumbled, and fell into warmth, into Harwin. He stank of horse and sweat and open air. Arya Stark broke apart, the tiny pieces that had been welded together cracking and all let loose. He held her, tears in his own eyes, as she cried, hands gripping his tunic. She cried, for Eddard Stark. She cried, for Sansa, all alone and afraid. She cried, because she was Arya Stark. The words she wanted to say weren’t able to roll off her tongue and she stuttered, his hands on her wet cheeks. He was saying something but she didn’t care, couldn’t hear. _You’re safe, Arya, you’re safe._

She was Arya Stark of Winterfell and she was real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been thinking about getting a beta but I'm not sure.
> 
> I'd like to make it known that as we get further on in this story, it will be mostly following the book plot but the end of this story is taken off a theory that I find very interesting. 
> 
> I want to make this story as realistic as possible by ASOIAF standards - meaning it isn't just going to be a "everyone lived happily ever after" that i see all too much with in fanfics. So far, I only have a handful of people I've chosen to survive this story and I might add or take away some characters.
> 
> I would also like to make clear that I don't hate Sansa, not in the slightest, but this story is from the point of view from Arya, who was bullied by her sister very badly to the point if severely affects what little self esteem she has. We, the readers, get to see Sansa transform and become less naive, whereas, in Arya's mind, Sansa is still the girl who tormented terribly.
> 
> Anyways, enjoy and we will soon see more development on Arya and Gendry's relationship on the chapters to come.


	18. Loyalty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amidst the war ravaging the land of Westeros, a lone Stark must find her way home, to her true family.
> 
> And yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I do not own any of the characters, places or story lines (unless stated otherwise) mentioned in the work; they all belong to their owner: G.R.R Martin  
> \- Mostly original dialogue.  
> \- A work of fiction previously known as "The Bull and the Wolf."  
> \- comments are very much appreciated!  
> \- for any more information, check out my profile!

**_Chapter Eighteen._ **

“You stop your fidgeting now or I’ll leave you stark naked and raw,” Sharna warned, placed her soap covered hands on her hips as she glared at the young Stark girl with her buggy, watery blue eyes. They were nothing like Lady Catelyn’s and the woman was far from looking like Arya’s mother but there was a familiarity in her tone, a mother scolding a child. Arya ducked her head, eyes dropping and teeth gnawing on her chapped lips, her hair, weeping, falling around her like dark curtains, tears cooling the heat on her cheeks.

“Sorry,” Arya mumbled, trying not to feel embarrassed at her situation. Glancing to the corner of her eye, through her eyelashes, she saw Sharna soften slightly, her lumpy lips pulling up from the frown that tugged at the corner of her mouth as she fell back on her knees again, taking the cloth in her hands again, holding it over the tub to twist and squeeze it, choking it as it coughed up dirty water.

“Now, sit still while I clean ye,” the homely woman warned though tone not as near as sharp as it had been in the common room of the inn, when Arya had stood before the innkeep’s wife, barefoot and covered in mud and grime. Before, when she had been Squab. Before, when she had not been Arya Stark.

Arya sat in the tub of lukewarm water, the smell of the harsh soap attacking the inside of her nose, nothing at all like the lavender and rose filled scent that would surround her back in Winterfell; there she hadn’t felt too embarrassed about being naked, not when Bran and Jon and Robb had been with her as they bathed in the hot springs in Winterfell. They would splash each other with water and Arya remembered watching as Robb and Jon would wrestle, Bran desperately trying to topple one of them beneath the surface of the water. They were left red cheeked and nose nipped with pink, the grins on their face while Robb shook his head at them, much like a dog, sparkling diamonds of water falling over them like specks of snow. Sansa had stopped bathing with them when she was ten and one, saying that is inappropriate for a lady to be seen with boys in such a situation. Back then, there had not been anything really different about her body, it was all knobbly knees and gangly arms just as Bran’s and Jon’s were, Robb’s own was toned and showing how he was growing. Soon, it was only Bran and Arya, with little Rickon too young and unable to withstand the heat. Then, only Arya.

Now she sat in the tub, knees pulled to her chest, trying desperately not to look at her naked body as Sharna scrubbed her arm, leaving it raw and pink, tingling with a new glow. Her nails, whatever was left of them that is, were clipped so they rounded smoothly and Sharna moved to the other side of the tub, picking up the other hand and doing the same with the other arm.

“Terrible, just terrible, what’s happened to ye,” Sharna clucked in a soft tone. “No little lady should have gone what you’ve gone through.”

Arya could not find her voice, for a lump was lodged in her throat and she stared at the murky, ever growing cold surface of the water. She could only imagine how she looked; all skin and bones, thin parchment held together by brittle bindings, skin too tough for the daughter of a lord and lady. Her hair had been scrubbed within an inch of its life and clipped, so that is rested just above her shoulders. Her hair had never been as pretty as Sansa, all brown and mud coloured with straggly wisps that could never be tamed or pulled back no matter how hard the maids tried. The ends no longer prickled her skin, sharp teeth jabbing into her neck, and the knots had been pulled from the strands, leaving them to hang wet and weeing, shining while catching the light mimicking a crown. It would have been easier to shave all of it off but Sharna wouldn’t hear of it. _I can’t send a little lady home to her mother bald, now can I?_

 _Home_.

She was going home. Harwin was going to help her go back home, back to Winterfell, to Mother and Bran and Rickon. She could almost see it perfectly, if she closed her eyes and tried hard enough. The smell of baking bread, the echo beneath the crypts with ghosts shouting her own words back at her and the white face of the weirwood tree, weeping red tears with leaves whispering over one another. Arya’s heart ached, an old ache; Winterfell wasn’t home; its stones were filled with ghosts and old memories. Ash fell like snow and Winterfell was crumbling in her mind; it wasn’t real, only made for wisps and spirits to haunt. Home had been her family, and she had been trying to return to them. But not to Father. Not to Bran or Robb or Rickon or Mother. Not even to Sansa, who was trapped in King’s Landing like a bird in a cage, chains made of gold and silver, her wings made of silk and the drop inevitable. And not Jon Snow, who was so far, far away; the loneliness that had settled over her, a harsh, unyielding winter snow, ached for her brother, for his smiles and his voice; how she could see herself in him, with the colour of his eyes, the curve of his jaw and the crinkle of his nose when he smiled. He had his own family now, his new brothers in black and Ghost who, true to his name, remained unseen and out of mind, mimicking the crying weirwood tree. _Why would he want me? I’m just worthless, a wolf without her pack. I’m not the same girl he knew and loved._

Sharna leaned back again, eyes narrowing and examining before she got to her feet, large body unsteady as a wet hand swept a greasy strand of hair behind a misshapen ear. Arya’s eyes watched the woman as she did so, waiting for her to speak, to say something instead of standing there staring at Arya’s body. In response, Sharna’s eyebrow perked up as if whatever she was expecting Arya to do was obvious.

“Well? What are you waitin’ for? Up you get so I clean the rest of you,” Sharna ordered, rolling her sleeves back up her thick arms so not to wet the cuffs. Arya’s eyes widened at her words, her cheeks reddening and for a second, she drew her knees closer to her chest, hoping to keep the secret of her naked body to herself and away from prying eyes. But Sharna wasn’t going to let Arya keep her modesty and rolled her watery eyes, snorting once again in that unladylike manner. “It ain’t nothing I’ve ever seen before or what I haven’t got myself. Come on, to your feet, while the sun is up.”

Suddenly, Sharna was much more terrifying than the Bloody Mummers and Vargo Hoat, with her knobbly chin and lumpy face and meaty hands. Arya stared up at her, the woman so much like a giant casting a cool shadow over her, protecting her from the harsh kiss of the sun’s rays. Arya swallowed what little pride she had left, shoving it down, down, down to the crevice of her heart. Her tongue was dry and her cheeks warm, flames spreading and unfurling to the tips of her ears, shame and embarrassment her kindling. Casting her grey eyes, Stark eyes, downwards to the surface of the scummy water before she finally found the strength to push herself up, knees shaking and the water sloshing back and forth in the tub, a small swaying sea and she a giant of the ocean depth. Slowly, Arya stood to her feet with hands floundering, wanting to cover herself but unsure of what to hide all the while trying to ignore the sight of her naked body by keeping her eyes focused on Sharna’s boots.

“Ain’t nothing to be shy about, girl,” Sharna spoke, voice soft and attempting to comfort the Stark girl. Arya couldn’t bear to meet her eyes without feeling the shame and embarrassment. “Come on; let’s get you cleaned up before you go. I know there’s a pretty lady beneath all this dirt and grime. Might surprise a few of them downstairs when they see you.”

Sharna was teasing now, throwing Arya a wink but Arya couldn’t find it within her to laugh or let her mood lighten. In fact, ever since finding Harwin, all she’s wanted to do was cry; cry for her father, for Yoren, for Sansa and her mother and Robb and broken Bran and Rickon. Cry for herself and the girl she used to be. Cry because she was ugly Arya Horseface with small thin limbs only useful for climbing trees and sitting in the saddle. And Jon. Jon, most of all. Sharna washed her body down, scrubbing her legs and her stomach, across her chest and lifting her arms again to clean the skin beneath. Arya felt vulnerable, much like the little girl she had not allowed herself to be these few months. Arya had tried to be a wolf, tried to snap and sink her teeth into her enemies but she was only a little girl, ten and three and had not yet bled. She no longer feared the dark was going to swallow up, leaving nothing but a ghost of name, but more so what hid in the dark, watching, waiting for her to step into their blade with their sickening grins.

The room was cold, wind licking at the water on her skin, droplets falling and attempting to catch themselves. Arya had been colder, had gone through such coldness her blood should have frozen in her veins, but she survived. She survived, when she was beaten black and blue, had crawled out of her own grave and buried the grave digger. Arya Stark had survived, had persevered, was more than flesh and bones. Steel and ice, iron and rock, no more glass than stone. A wolf that had spent too long in sheep’s wool and had forgotten who she was. She was casting aside her wooden teeth and was reaching for the sword that would kill her. Arya Stark had survived against the odds, had refused to be buried alive and choke on the dirt they tried to cover her with. They had tried to kill her slowly, with a hangman’s noose made of silk and titles, then with iron fists and their cruel words, but she was a wolf of Winterfell. _What do we say to the god of death?_

Spit in his eye and say fuck you.

The water swayed around her ankles, the surface scummy and foaming from the soap Sharna had scrubbed her with, like spit along the sides of the tub. Her eyes still hurt from crying earlier; it was a never ending ocean, the west of Westeros, and Arya thought the tears would never end, that she would shrivel up. But they did end, though Harwin’s own did not and he held her to him as if she were his own. For the smallest of moments, Arya closed her eyes and let herself believe it was Eddard Stark holding her. Tom had been over joyed, for he had found something more valuable than two horses: a high born lady, sister to the King in the North. No one would have thought Arya to be so with her ratty, greasy hair and her bare feet.

No longer would she be Squab, nor Nan, nor Arry; her name was Arya Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Stark and she was a wolf, a water dancer. It mattered not if she were in a dress of silk or one of metal; she would always be Arya Stark. Arya felt another breeze rush over her, goose bumps rippling like waves over her body and she could not resist the urge to place her arms over her chest, hands clasping around her somewhat toned biceps in a bid to gain warmth to her body. As if taking it as a cue, Sharna stood back, strangling the cloth and making it cough up dirty water, spilling into the tub, and then threw the filthy piece of material on her shoulder, not caring if it were to seep into her clothes or stain. Wiping her meaty hands on the folds of her skirts, the tall woman took a thin blanket that lay resting over the back of a chair and helped place it over Arya’s shoulders, giving the girl the privacy she coveted. Once Arya’s body was covered and no longer naked, to her relief, Sharna helped her step out into the room, teasing her not to slip and knock her head on the edge of tub.

“Now, you wait there ‘til I get back with some clothes,” Sharna advised, bustling through the room as quickly as her round body would let her. The room was small and the tub lay nestled in the far corner, away from the prying eyes of the open door, with little furniture that it could allow. The rickety chair, wobbling dangerously, was opposite Arya, angled away from the window and to her left a table, standing beside the tub of grimy water. There was naught else in the room, Arya noticed as she sniffed, water dripping from her hair down her neck and darkening the faded green colour of the blanket she had around her. On the table was a brush, with the bristles all bent and forced apart in different directions, and beside that, a looking glass.

It wasn’t like the one Sansa or her mother had; theirs had been large, spotless, image perfected and clean to see with no brassy tones. This one was small and old, green dots teething at the edge and a golden hue on the surface. It wasn’t large either, she noted, feet moving to stand in front of it; taking a few steps back, even then she was only able to see from her neck down to the middle of her thigh. Arya stood for a moment, still and quiet as if the blanket were leaves and she a tree, bones creaking, and chewed her lip, eyes darting around and ears straining to pick up on the sounds of boots outside the door. But all she could hear were the distant voices of the men downstairs, none she recognised or cared for, and she was alone, no eyes on her, watching her. _When was the last time I was alone like this?_

First, the blanket dipped from her shoulders, revealing the pale skin that had been untouched by the fingers of the sun’s golden rays. Arya examined them for a moment, noting how her collarbone was more pronounced than she had ever seen, and grimaced at the thought of how the rest of her might look. She thought of the dogs that would wander the streets of King’s Landing, only to end up in someone’s stew. Their ribs had been protruding, barely kept back by the matted fur and thinly stretched skin; was she like that? Had she turned into a thin, ragged wolf with weak bones and parchment thin skin? Arya stared at the image in the mirror, pale shoulders and hands gripping the blanket, teeth gnawing on her bottom lip before the blanket dropped, pooling at her feet like the leaves browning the forest floor.

Arya stared at herself; her, uncovered and bare as her Name Day. Yellowing bruises reminding her of the dandelions she once picked for her father when travelling the King’s Road. Her body was spring, petals of blue, purple and yellow blooming and taking root like weeds on her stomach, thighs and arms. Her ribs, branches, poked from beneath, the gabs between being able to hold her thin finger. The tan lines were noticeable, marking on her elbows as if it showed where Arya Stark ended and all the others, all Arry and Nan and Squab, began. She blushed at the hair that was on her body, on her legs, beneath her arms, _between_ her legs. Arya had never paid much heed to her body before, always being stuffed into heavy dresses that hid all but her hands and the neck upwards made it so.

But now Arya stared, stared at the fine, soft dark hair on her thighs and calves, lifting her arms to see the same; her hips swelled, no longer straight and like a boy’s. A hand was placed on the skin, grimacing at the sight of the hipbone peeking out. Her fingers and palm were rough, not unlike leather, and it almost scratched her pale stomach. Her breasts had grown too, no longer small and unnoticeable. Slowly, Arya shifted, turning sideways, and gazed at her body, all bones and small curves. When she was ten and two, her Septa had told her that a lady’s body changed as she got older but now, what Arya saw in front of her, was a stark difference. Her growth was stunted; though she had not been tall before, her bones had ached and promised height but Arya knew she would never be as tall and graceful as Sansa was. Almost blushing, her hands trailed over her hips, across her stomach and running over her ribs before grazing her breasts. She hadn’t noticed, hadn’t felt, her body change; her body always ached and she always woke with a pain in her lower stomach, probably due to hunger.

It would be harder now for her to hide her gender whilst on the road, though part of her was glad that she no longer had to do so; she actually looked like a girl now, with her hair longer and not a raggedy, greasy mess of short and long strands digging into her skin. Arya remembered how Syrio Forel had told her that a water dancer was meant to be small, to be quick and graceful, able to run like water over rocks and disappear like a rays of light over a shadow. All those memories resurfaced; running through the dungeons and the canals, eyes on that one black cat that escaped her. Its fur was matted and seemed browner from the dirt and shit than the black it should have been. Its claws were like Needle, thin but sharp, ready to swipe across the back of her hand before scampering off. A small smile quirked at Arya’s lips as she continued to stare at her warped, naked reflection; she was a water dancer, meant to hold Needle instead of Ice, to move like water instead of a bull. A wolf prowling through the night and you wouldn’t know she was there until her teeth were locked around your throat.

Her hands ran over her tummy, gold against ivory, and winced at the sight of the bruises that had been planted there, growing like weeds, but she couldn’t even remember where most of them had originated from. Memory of Weese’s beating came to the front of her mind, how he pelted her with fist and foot into the ground. Arya couldn’t even remember how long ago that had been. Weeks? Months? Arya turned back so that she viewed her body completely, frowning. How many months had it been since her father had been murdered? Morning and night dripped away, like blood running in a stream staining it pink, and Arya lost all sense of time, as if it didn’t exist and all that was happening was one bad dream. But she knew it wasn’t; everything hurt so _much_ for it not to be real.

The sound of the door opening made Arya’s heart stutter, hands picking up the discarded pooled blanket at her feet and quickly wrapping around her shoulders, cheeks reddening at the thought of being caught doing something so bold as looking at herself naked. Her heart fluttered madly in her chest beneath her branched ribs, embarrassment rolling like waves as Sharna entered the room, turning a corner to stand in front of Arya but unaware of what she had almost caught the Stark girl doing. The tall woman held a bundle of clothes, draped over one arm in a mess of white and brown and other muddled colours, whilst one hand gripped boots, fingers hooking into the heels.

“’Fraid all I have is some trousers; we don’t get many young ladies here though I’m sure you won’t mind,” Sharna teased, causing Arya to blush that bit more. All she wanted was to finally place some clothes on her back instead of having a simple thread bare blanket to keep herself covered, as well as keeping what little modesty she had left. “There’s some socks and a breast band in there, too; I wouldn’t want ye goin’ around half undressed. I’ll leave here for you on the dresser and wait for you outside. Give us a knock when you’re ready.”

Sharna placed the clothes down on the table, not quite folded neatly, with the shoes resting beside them as to not smudge any dirt on them. Arya could barely choke a thank you out before Sharna left, the door closing again and Arya was alone. She turned her gaze sideways to the mirror, blushing as she met her own eye again, before sniffing and stepping forward to claim her new attire. The clothes smelt of dust and moths, feeling thin and strange in her hands as if they had not seen the light of day for many years. Still, they were better than what she had on before. When Arya had been undressing for her bath, she had asked for Gendry’s tunic, though had not named him. The tall woman had told her the top would make more use as a rag and Arya bit her tongue. She knew Gendry wouldn’t have wanted it back but it had been his, therefore giving her a reason to value it. It was probably being burned now, threads snapping and curling into ash with only one mourning its loss. The coin Jaqen H’ghar had given her was hidden, stowed away in the small pouch of her saddle. She almost forgotten about it, had almost let it be thrown away, but now it was safe, out of sight and

The blanket dropped again, a shiver running down Arya’s spine as her hands began to sort through the pile in order to see what she had been giving. The socks were woolly, a better quality than she had expected and Arya pulled them over her feet, hopping slightly and nearly laughing at herself for a water dancer should be graceful when standing on one foot, not hopping around like a drunk. Her feet no longer ached as they had after her resting and being allowed to stew in a tub of warm water; next, her small clothes, one leg in and then another, before pulling them up. The breeches came next, a faded brown colour, creases burying themselves deep into the material, and they smelt musty having been locked away in a cupboard for so long. Arya rolled the ends of the cuffs up, letting them sit around her ankles and they rested on her hips, something she was thankful for as finding something that fit and didn’t fall off her was something that was becoming more difficult. Arya ran the material of the breast band over the pads of her fingers and shook her head, placing back down on the table before grabbing the tunic and jerkin, slipping the bother of them over her head and looking in the mirror only to see that her chest was far too noticeable. After placing the breast band around her chest and putting the last remaining clothes back on, Arya took the boots off the surface of the table and down onto the ground. They were made of supple leather, worn and smooth from years of use. Her feet slipped into them, toes wriggling, and tied the laces, glad that she would no longer have to trek through the forest bare foot nor have to suffer with shoes that were too small for her.

Arya stood up and stayed still; it felt strange, odd, being dressed in clean clothes and being clean for all she had known these past few months was the feel of greasy hair while stinking of sweat. Her hand went to her hair at the thought, feeling the now clean strands between her fingers and bringing them to her nose; they smelt of soap, clinical and simple. Her mother’s had always smelt slightly of cinnamon and Arya remembered when she had to share a bed with Sansa, her sister’s had smelt of vanilla. Arya’s hair hung around her, slightly knotty from being scrubbed so vigorously by Sharna, and is was getting drier, falling straight, unlike Sansa’s whose hair would end up in soft, auburn curls, like flames of a fire that would burn you when you got to close. Arya grabbed the brush, not caring who might have used it before hand, and brought it through her hair, not as kindly as the maids might have done when they had convinced her – or forced her – to sit still for ten minutes. Arya remembered how her mother loved brushing Sansa’s hair before bed; but not Arya’s. Never Arya’s.

Arya turned to the mirror again, bringing the bent bristles of the brush through the strands of her hair until they were free from being tangled in each other, fingers knotted and laced together, with small droplets of water curling down the curve of her jaw. When she had done, Arya placed the brush back down, the parchment coloured bristles now with strands of brown hair caught in is grasp, and Arya stared at her reflection in the mirror. Weeks, or maybe months, ago she had looked at herself in the surface of the water, the day they were caught by the mountain’s men and after Yoren had choked on steel and blood. But now she could truly see what she looked like; no longer was her race round, rosy and red from first the cold and then the heat. Sharp angles and cheeks bones, her eyes didn’t seem as large set in her face as they used to be, with purple bruises of exhaustion snuggling beneath. Her skin wasn’t ivory either; it had been kissed and caressed by the sun’s rays, bringing out a splattering of freckles that were not unlike unintelligent constellations. Her lips her frayed and chapped and red, the bottom lip just that bit too bigger than the bottom; long, soft eyebrows curved over her eyes, nothing like the thread thin hairs the ladies at court would have. Arya frowned at her reflection; she certainly wasn’t pretty, but she wasn’t ugly. How many hours did she used to spend looking in the mirror, wishing that one day she would wake up looking like Sansa or her mother? _Too many._

Sighing, Arya turned away and was sick at looking at herself; her new shoes clicked against the wooden floorboards and her knuckles rapped against the door, it being opened by Sharna who, true to her word, had been waiting for Arya.

“My, would you look at you! Without all that dirt on you, there’s no way anyone would think you were boy!” Arya knew it was meant as a compliment but it only worried her; how could she expect to pass as a boy anymore? It had been something that saved her but now she could only be Arya Stark.

“Thank you.” Arya’s voice reply was clean cut and sharp, like all those words that Septa Mordane would make her repeat about old kings and queens who were naught but dust in their graves. She had never quite mastered the politeness of being a lady, not like Sansa who could repeat over a hundred poems and songs that had been shoved down her throat. Arya remembered being envious of her sister, though now Arya wasn’t too sure; if she had a choice of being on the run or being locked up set to marry that monster for a king, she would choose the former.

Sharna looked at her, unfazed by Arya’s words, and frowned, as if she wanted to say something. She pitied Arya, something the Stark girl knew and hated, making her stomach boil and her heart clench. Her grey eyes dropped, like stones, and her hands fiddled with her breeches, the phantom feel of Needle filling her palm. Then, Sharna’s large meaty hand was on her shoulder and she was guiding her down the stairs, with a promise of food and clean water, something which Arya had been missing for many months. The familiar touch of Sharna’s hand made Arya’s skin crawl slightly; she was unused to strangers touching her in any way that did not end up in bruises or split lips.

The warmth of the common room fanned over Arya’s face and she felt nervous, as if the Mountain or the Bloody Mummers were going to reveal themselves at any moment. But they didn’t. Men looked her way and smile kindly, some nodding their heads at her direction, others raising their tankards as if to toast to her. Arya felt like she was back in Winterfell, sitting with her father’s men who were amused by her and called her Arya Underfoot, never Arya Horseface. But they weren’t her father’s men; these were outlaws, bandits, living in the woods and pretending to fight for a king who was no better than the current. Sharna’s hand still remained on Arya’s shoulder and she remembered that they were the only two women in the establishment. Arya’s eyes glanced over the heads of everyone, trying to spot a head of black curls, but found none that matched the one she was looking for. Hot Pie was sitting, quite happily, talking with Husband who seemed to intent on listening to whatever the fat boy was saying. Gendry was nowhere in sight and that familiar curl of worry and fear began to tighten itself in her stomach. _Where is he? Have they done something to him?_ A lump formed in her throat with panic beginning to run through her veins when a voice called out.

“Why, Squab, don’t you look like a proper lady now?” It was Anguy and he was walking over to her, a smile on his face that was marred by the swelling in his cheek that she had hit with the tankard. There was a chip in his front tooth but Arya didn’t feel guilt. “Give us a smile; I know a pretty lady like you has one.” Instead, Arya pulled a deep frown and he laughed.

“You stop that now Anguy,” Sharna warned, none too pleased at the archer’s teasing with Arya. “Don’t you go around fooling with this little lady or I’ll thrash you myself.” Arya nearly piped up that she could protect herself, as evident of the red and purple bruise on his cheek, and that she was some stupid silly girl who was entranced by boys and their stupid sugar covered words, like Sansa had been. But Anguy only laughed and pointed to his cheek, as if to say the same thing Arya was thinking. At Sharna’s words as Tom came up, harp at his belt and a bandage around his arm.

“I’d be careful with this one; she may be a lady but she fights like a bear,” Tom warned though there was a quirk at the corner of his lips.

“Only one bear lady I know of she and she isn’t easy on the eyes,” Anguy snorted, though Arya knew not of who they were speaking of. Her ears tuned out as her eyes flickered around the room again, trying to spot for any sign of Gendry, or of Harwin, but neither were in sight. With reluctance, she turned back to the two men with her eyebrows knotting together.

“Where are Gendry and Harwin?”

“Gendry?” Tom asked, eyebrows shooting up in confusion before the realisation clicked. “Ah, you mean your lad. I believe he and Harwin are in the stables. Harwin spends too much around horses if you ask me.”

Arya remembered Hullen, dying on a bed of blood stained straw, golden fingers in his hair. Hullen had been Harwin’s father and he had always been kind to her. She doubted Harwin knew of his father’s death and it would be her job to tell him. At this, she ducked beneath Sharna’s hand, feet guiding her away from the room that was too full of noise and voices, only to hear Sharna tell her food would be ready at any minute. Not that Arya cared, she was feeling suffocated by all the eyes on her; she wished she could be like Nan again, a ghost drifting through the bones of Harrenhal with no one caring, no one watching her every move. She could still smell the sweet scent of Jaqen H’ghar’s hair swaying around her as he asked for his due in front of the ever watchful eyes of the gods.

The world outside smelt of grass and the stink of horses wafted over her, catching on the breeze as she paused for a moment, eyes closing and taking a deep breath. It felt strange, being allowed to relax and not having to spend every waking moment worrying ever single moment of whether they would survive, of whether they would be caught and tortured. Her hair was still damp but was becoming drier as the wind ran its fingers through the strands, brushing silken threads around her, catching in her eyelashes and at the corner of her mouth. She could hear the leaves rushing over one another, the river slurping and gurgling, horses neighing and snicker, voices speaking in hushed whispers.

Her eyes snapped open and she turned towards the stables, where the before hushed voices were growing louder but remained muffled, mumbled as if they were beneath water and all Arya could see were air bubbles. Arya crept closer, the smell of the stables becoming more prominent, as her ears pricked at the sound of voices. She picked Gendry’s out in an instant, his voice low and soft. She could see Harwin, talking to the taller boy close, hand on Gendry’s bicep with his back to Arya. Arya knew the stance; it was one of a threatening nature and alarm spread through her, making her step forward, boots against the ground. The downside of not going barefoot was that people were now able to hear her every move and instantly, Harwin stepped back and looked over his shoulder while Gendry’s eyes flickered up for a brief moment, grey storms and angry seas, before they cast to the ground. _Quiet as a shadow,_ Syrio Forel had told her. _Clever girls go barefoot,_ Jaqen had advised. But there was no danger around her. No fear. It was silent for a moment, eyes narrowing as Arya spoke.

“What are you doing?” she didn’t need to ask because she knew, knew from how Harwin had been standing that it was not a pleasant exchange though about what, Arya didn’t know. Harwin, however, seemed oblivious to her understanding of the situation and smiled at her, as if she was ten and one again and asking to ride one of the big ponies now that she was a woman at the stables back in Winterfell. _He thinks I’m a child_ , a voice whispered in her mind. The blood on her hands told her she was far from whom she once was, that that Arya Stark was dead.

“Ah, there you are!” Harwin grinned beneath the beard but it was forced, tight at the edges and no longer held the warmth and kindness she once knew. The world was drained of such things nowadays. Harwin stepped away from Gendry, who in turn looked away from the ground and focused his attention on a horse – _their_ horse, the one they had been sharing the past few weeks. Arya’s eyes watched him do so as Harwin stepped beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder. The hand was adorned with new scars, pink and small. “You look more like yourself without all that dirt on you.”

 _I look more like Arya Horseface_ , she thought glumly but did not respond as such. Her father’s men never called her that, not to her knowledge or to her face, but sometimes, when practising her stitching or chasing Bran around the yard, she could hear Sansa and her friends, Jeyne Poole most of all, neighing towards her and calling her names. Once it made her eyes sting and tears well in her eyes; now, it was an old scar, just another name that she wore. A stitch in the sleeve, a notch in wood.

“Sharna said the food is ready now,” Arya replied, almost coolly. The knots in her stomach had lessened, hunger subsided and cast away like shadows under candle light but there was still that tight feeling in her stomach, that paranoia that everything was going to fall around her, leaving ash in her mouth. Harwin still thought she was that child in Winterfell, the one who never sat side saddle on the horse, the one who would wrestle with Bran and hang off of the arm of Jon Snow, asking her brother about swords and armour and all the things boys were allowed to learn to survive.

“Mighty stuff,” Harwin commented, moving the hand that was burning her shoulder to place it over his stomach, as if to quell the hunger that had burrowed itself in him. “At this point I could eat anything.”

Arya remembered the taste of pigeon from King’s Landing and all the unknown assorted meats that were soaked in the watery stew she would be given in exchange. The ale had burned her throat like wildfire, leaving her warm and dazed, stumbling over cobblestones and her own feet. She did not reply to Harwin’s statement and Gendry seemed set on ignoring the two of them. He was brooding, eyes storming, and his jaw clenched. Despite Harwin’s persistent smile, she could taste the tension, feel it almost choking her lungs. The grumble in her tummy nearly made her want to go back inside but Arya couldn’t. Instead, her eyes tore away from Gendry and to Harwin, who was looking down at her.

“I’ll join you inside. I want to talk to Gendry.”

There was no room for debate, no room for him to push her words aside with promise of warm food and clean water to gulp down. Harwin blinked at her words, as if trying to let them sink in, almost surprised at her cold bluntness, too much like her father, too much ice and wolf and not enough of the young girl who used to squeal when the horse would trot too fast or the same girl who would swing from branches in the godswood, dress and knees in tatters with dirt smudged on her nose. And they stared at one another, waiting for the other to bend and break under the pressure, as if there were something larger at stake other than supper. She was changed, and so was he; two strangers meeting again. And then, Harwin gave a gruff grunt as an answer, his eyes narrowing slightly as he placed a hand on her shoulder again, as if he wanted to say something, wanted to get words past the tip of his tongue that were struggling to hold on and not reach any ears. But then his mouth closed and Harwin’s hand dropped, leaving her and Gendry alone.

“What did he say to you?” There was no beating around the bush, being sly and slinking behind words; blunt like a rusted sword and she moved further into the stable, closer to him, as his hand pause from moving along the sleek neck of the beast.

“He didn’t say anything,” a grumble and he still wasn’t looking at her.

“Yes he did. I want to know what he said to you.” She was closer to him, like when they stood together to form strength in numbers. How in Harrenhal she had tried to show him how to use a sword, hands on his chest and her heart fluttering madly, like a bird desperate to keep from falling on a wild storm wind.

His frown deepened and Arya moved so she stood at the front of the horse, hand on the other side of the beast’s thick neck as Gendry’s own continued its pattern up and down, hand sometimes getting caught in the wiry hair.

“He just reminded me of my place.” Arya stared at him, of how his face was clean of any emotion, making it impossible to know how he was feeling but his eyes were crashing waves; confusion, uncertainty. Her lips quirked down and the horse bucked its head slightly, as if displeased by the lack of attention it was receiving. Arya hands moved to the horse’s snout, gently moving up and down to calm it and to make sure it would not knock heads with hers.

“Your place?” The world was crumbling into a pit of blood and death; it would not matter what titles you held or how you lived when your heart echoed beneath your chest and your blood ran rivers in your veins, everyone was destined to rot to nothing and dust.

“I’m a bastard, you’re a lady. It isn’t right for us to talk.”  There was a boiling in her stomach and she thought of Jon, who would always say the same. How there was a small smile on his face, as if she were a silly girl who didn’t understand how the world worked, and Jon would gather her in his arms, hair and stubble tickling her cheeks as he told her that he would only ever be a bastard and could never be her true brother. Gendry wasn’t smiling, wasn’t holding her and trying to use kind words to heal aches, and there was a coldness to him.

“So?” Arya asked, frustrated and bitter. Gendry looked at her, as if she was stupid, as if the answer was obvious. He was close enough she could see the freckles across his nose, all pressed together, darkened by the rays of the sun.

“Ladies aren’t meant to talk to baseborn bastards,” Gendry almost spat, his eyes hooded by the fringe of his hair. The venom dripped from his tongue like Dornish wine, bitter and unsweetened. “And that’s what you are, a lady.”

Arya wasn’t a lady; she was a wolf, prowling the forests and trees with her muzzled dyed red and mouth stinking of blood. Sansa was the lady, the one who looked pretty in every dress, braids in her flames and blue eyes like the summer sky. Arya was more than her birth, more than her titles. She was a water dancer, a wolf, a ghost and no one. Harwin knew she would rather climb a tree than stitch a rose or practise the steps to a dance she could never understand. The role of a lady wasn’t meant for her and Arya would not mould herself to it.

“I don’t care,” she said defiantly, squaring her shoulders and looking him straight in the eyes, grey storm clouds against the fierce ocean. “Who cares if you’re a bastard? I don’t.” Joffrey was a high born and he was a monster. Robert had been lazy and a drunk and a noble. All of Arya’s friends had been common because none of the other high born girls wanted to play with her. Sansa had out grown playing with dolls and throwing snowballs at each other. She still remembered when Sansa had demanded her own room away from Arya, driving a wedge between the two of them.

“You should,” Gendry replied with a snort, a sneer forming on the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t do well for m’lady to be associating with lowborns.” He hadn’t called her that, not in a long time. Only Arya, only ever Arya. She thought of poor Lommy Greenhands and how he always sneered and called her _Lumpy head_. Arya hadn’t thought of him in so long; she felt guilty, for letting him go forgotten. Hot Pie had called her that too, until he decided that calling someone with a sword names wasn’t a good idea. Not Gendry, though. He never called her names like that. Only Arya, or Arry. Or _m’lady_ with a smile, teasing and lightness in her eyes.

“I don’t care that you’re a bastard, you’re more than that,” Arya stated, moving away from the horse to stand at his side, and then, without thinking or realising, Arya let her hand place it over his, the one that rested against the horse. The back of his hand was softer than his palm, with only the faintest scars peering out from the golden canvas, white from age. “You’re my _friend_.”

She had never said it out loud, never mind to him. It had been a secret in her mind, something to treasure and never for her to ruin. She didn’t have many friends. There had been Robb before he got too old to play with little girls, Sansa before she had grown into the role of a lady, Bran before he became broken, Nymeria before Arya had to chase the direwolf away and Jon before he left her. Arya had left Winterfell, no friends, no one to laugh or play with. Nymeria was a wolf and Ned always warned Arya that a wolf could never be a house pet; broken yes, but never tamed. Mycah had ended up slung over the back of the Hound’s horse Stranger, stinking and pouring blood.

But Gendry was her friend. He was sometimes too stubborn, always brooding and frowning but then he was also teasing, laughing with her and not _at_ her; he had trusted just as she had trusted him. He had kept her secret from everyone, from Tywin Lannister and from Vargo Hoat. He could have turned her over for a safe life but he didn’t; he hadn’t left her, hadn’t abandoned her like all the others had. Gendry was looking at her, blank and close and Arya found his hand to be too warm, burning into her palm. There was that nervous chattering of her heart again, tripping and stuttering.

For a terrifying moment, Arya thought that maybe he didn’t see her as a friend, just a means to freedom. Maybe he didn’t care about her; maybe he was just using her and then would betray her before she could blink. But then his face softened with the ice in his eyes melting and winter disappearing and she felt the guilt of doubting him eating at her again.

“I haven’t had many friends,” he admitted, shy around the edges but not moving his large hand from beneath hers. He paused, mulling over his words, as if hesitating on what to say. She wished he didn’t hold back on his words, because she wanted to hear them all. “I didn’t need them. I’m… You’re my friend too.”

Arya couldn’t stop the smile on her face breaking out; a crack of thunder and her cheeks creaked from rust and so long without being used for such an action. Something swelled in her heart and a lump in her throat, like the day Jon Snow gave her Needle. Arya remembered jumping into his arms, burying her nose into his neck and inhaling the smell of his soap as he held her. Gendry smelt of horse and sweat and the grass they had been spending nights sleeping on and the rain too, the soot a lingering scent of all his years working as a blacksmith. His hair was so long now, a mop of coal coloured curls that wrapped themselves around each other, wisps catching on the curve of his ear and temples. Friends, they had agreed on it. They were friends now, seeing each other as the other’s ally and most trusted. And it made what was left of Arya’s heart almost burst, with happiness or relief, she wasn’t sure.

And then his eyes moved upwards slightly, catching on her clean hair before darting over her clean face and a thoughtful look washed over his face. “You look… like a girl, now.”

He had said that before, once when it had been dark and they were face to face with only the watery light of the moon washing over them. He had whispered that she looked like a girl, despite her instance she was always one. But this was different; it was if he was actually seeing her for the first time – which he was, technically. Here she was, Arya of House Stark, clean and fresh faced, not Arry or Nan or Squab or Lumpyhead, covered in grime and sweat and dirt. And she felt self-conscious again, slipping her hand from beneath Gendry’s burning one and letting it go to her hair, the strands almost dry and soft, slipping through her fingers like water over the lip of a ceramic jug.

“I know,” Arya said, trying to get over the feel of having soft hair again. “Sharna almost wanted to put me in a dress.” The thought of having to be shoved in one nearly made her face scrunch up and Gendry’s lips adopted a smile, also amused at the thought.

“That would have been something to see,” he commented. “I would have felt sorry for Sharna to be put through such an ordeal. You look nice, without all that dirt on your face.” A tease and Arya let her hand dart out to hit his bicep, the mood light and smile on both of their faces. She would say that he didn’t look nice, because of his dark beard and the streaks of grime and mud on his skin but Arya didn’t really like lying to her friends. Then, Arya grabbed her bottom lip between her teeth and glanced around her before letting her voice drop.

“Do you trust them?” she questioned. “After everything that happened with Lem and Tom and Anguy… do you trust them?”

That thoughtful look once again passed over Gendry’s face, a different one from before, and he pursed his lips. He had let his voice drop to her level too, as if afraid someone might over hear them. She knew it was likely and moved closer just as he did the same, a conversation of whispers and being each other’s confidant. “Do _you?_ ”

“I trust Harwin.” _And you._

“But not the rest,” Gendry picked up, head nodding slowly as if in agreement. “I don’t know. They definitely aren’t keeping us around for company. You’re a high born lady and they wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. They probably hope to get a ransom out of your family when they return you.”

The journey to Riverrun wouldn’t be so filled with fear now; they could be allowed to talk without fear of being overheard or caught and maybe Arya would be allowed to act her age again. It would be nice, to be able to go to sleep without wondering if she would wake to find a knife to her through and Gendry’s body bled out beside her. She shook the image from her head, ignoring the tightening in her tummy at the thoughts, and met his eyes again.

“You’re coming with me, right?” It was a small whisper, nearly bordering on being a plea that made Arya flinch at how vulnerable she sounded. She didn’t want to depend on him, didn’t want to place that burden on him. If he didn’t want to go, then there was nothing she could do. She would remain alone and unwanted if that was how it was supposed to be. But he placed his hand on her arm, a gentle touch that didn’t make her skin crawl like it usually did whenever someone else tried to initiate contact with her; this touch she had grown accustomed to, to the warmth of his hands, the roughness of his palms and the little bumps of scars sewn into his skin.

“Of course.” No hesitation, no doubt beforehand. There was a redness in his cheeks but he wasn’t ashamed of it. “You’re my friend. I can’t let my only friend go off alone.”

Arya let herself smile that blinding smile again, something she had once only shown Jon Snow, and nearly let herself wrap her arms around him, to hold him and have him hold her like they would sometimes do at night, when they would lie down side by side in the darkness, untangling in the morning. She could feel the heat of his body and he was smiling again, soft at the edges and pink cheeks and Arya knew that hers were the same, as if Winter had settled around them and their breaths were white smoke, caught up in each other and the far too big of a space between them that Arya knew could only be closed if she reached out. Her heart was thumping madly, in joy and happiness because he said _she_ was his _friend_ , that he trusted her just as she trusted him, that he would leave her just as she wouldn’t leave him. Had she been like Sansa, she might have let a tear slip out and kissed his cheek. And he was smiling too and Arya didn’t feel so old anymore, didn’t feel as if she was one foot in the grave anymore. It was as if her mind and soul remembered she was ten and three, young and allowed to laugh and enjoy the small, most beautiful moments in life.

“I think we should join the others, they might wonder what we’re doing,” Arya said, somewhat breathless but she didn’t care, not anymore.

“Oh, I’m pretty sure I know what they’re thinking,” Gendry murmured, as if more to himself than to her but she brushed it off. “After you, m’lady.”

Arya couldn’t help but let out a laugh at Gendry’s terrible attempt at a bow and deep inside her, life stirred and she didn’t feel as numb anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "how the fuck do you write over 4,000 words on a bath and dressing sequence?" - my friend, 2k17
> 
> What's this? Another chapter in the space of a week? Now that we are getting to the more exciting things instead of just the slow build up, it is far more fun to write rather than being energy wasting. The following chapters to come of Gendry and Arya's travels are my favourite to plan and oh, boy, are they going to be fun to write. Now that they are allowed to relax and not spend all the time worried, that means more room for other thoughts - mainly on each other.
> 
> this meant to be a much longer chapter but I'm separating it into two chapters, this being part one. I had intended more Gendry and Arya moments but they will appear in the next chapter. Though, I must admit, I have this niggling fear that I don't present Gendry as being a character of depth, that he lacks any true presence/personality but i guess it's something for me to work on later
> 
> no proof reading we dye like mwn
> 
> i want to thank everyone who has commented on this story so far! I love reading all your thoughts and every comment means a lot to me!


	19. Ours is the Fury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amidst the war ravaging the land of Westeros, a lone Stark must find her way home, to her true family.
> 
> And yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I do not own any of the characters, places or story lines (unless stated otherwise) mentioned in the work; they all belong to their owner: G.R.R Martin  
> \- Mostly original dialogue.  
> \- A work of fiction previously known as "The Bull and the Wolf."  
> \- comments are very much appreciated!  
> \- for any more information, check out my profile!

**_Chapter Nineteen._ **

The common room was warm, smelling of food and ale, the fire crackling in the large heart, spitting embers at anyone who dared to venture too far. A shiver went down Arya’s spine; it was the opposite of the all too familiar sting of coldness, and her bones still had to get used to the feel of being warm again. Before, she had always been so cold and tired and frightened. Now, she was clean, free from the layers of dirt that covered her skin and free from the fear that haunted her every waking moment. But there was still the paranoia that lingered; the side glances of the men, the somewhat hushed voices that trickled through the air, eyes on her like she was back in King’s Landing again and they were all glaring at her dirtied and torn dress, nothing like the smiles that were for Sansa.

But this was different; there were no ladies with their powdered faces laughing at her behind their hands, snickering at her messy braids and scrawny body. These men were looking at her, curious and wanting to know how she got to be where she was. How did the daughter of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North and Hand of the King, end up lost and a long way from home? Dropped in the middle of an unseen war, the water reaching boiling temperatures and threatening to burn her without the protection of stone walls and dresses? At first, she blamed Sansa, stupid, beautiful Sansa who only thought of silk and songs and her precious Joffrey. But Sansa was only a young girl, who wanted to believe that the world was like a song and she the princess in need of her prince.

Who was to blame, then? The person who swung the sword or the one who gave the order?

Beneath the crackle of the fire and the hushed voices of the men around her, an array of different coloured skins and no man the same as the other, Arya couldn’t help but let her guard drop even by the tiniest amount; she had no sword, the dagger that she had used to Tom taken off of her, and her only weapon of choice were her short clipped claws that could do no harm to anyone now, not even herself. She was sheared of her wolf skin, declawed, helpless to fight back even if Arya wanted to. She was eating from the hand that struck her but it wasn’t within Arya to really care, or to run away at that moment; they might have given her no choice and taken away her weapons, but they were offering food and a bed in exchange. And her tired, beaten body was too weary to refuse such a tempting offer. The common room smelt of the bread baking and ale that the men were drinking, eyes glancing over the lips of their cups to watch her and Gendry as they moved, walking side by side; like a pack of wolves knowing that there was strength in numbers by sticking close together.

Arya tried to hold her head up high, like her mother would do with her crown of red flames braided atop of her head, curls kissing her high cheekbones with her eyes never straying downwards because no one worth the bending of her head, not for Lady Catelyn Stark. Arya tried to not let herself revert back to Arya Horseface, always bold and brave but so breakable by the words that Jeyne Poole and Sansa would whisper when they would be stitching and sewing, pulling loose the threads Arya had put into her bones and skin to stop herself from falling apart. Gendry looked tall and proud, if he had been dressed in fine silks and his hair and beard clipped, he might have looked like a lord; one of the few honourable ones left in Westeros, at least.

Hot Pie sat near the hearth, head bent low to talk in confidence with Husband, his fat face scrunched up as Husband’s lips moved fast and urgent, his bony hand on Hot Pie’s meaty shoulder. The golden glow from the fire was like a blanket over the room, covering everyone with its gentle warmth. It wasn’t a stifling heat, a heat that didn’t choke her with its sweaty hand and steal her breath from her lungs. It reminded her of when the maids used to stoke the fire in her room as she lay beneath her heavy blankets, snow falling outside and wind whistling with Nymeria at the foot of her bed, Arya’s own protector before she had Needle, before Nymeria had to be left behind. Arya wondered if her wolf was still out there, wandering around the forests, a beast grown so tall and large that one would mistake her for a bear. A part of Arya still yearned for her wolf, to have run away with Nymeria that day when she and Jory had thrown rocks to make the animal run away in order to prevent her from dying. Arya still remembered how Sansa cried and cried when Lady’s bones had been sent back to Winterfell to be buried, her sister’s wails mixed in with curses at Arya, blaming the younger girl for everything.

Arya took a seat at the table that Hot Pie sat along with Husband, the table tucked away in a corner from prying and sneaking eyes yet close enough to the heart to feel the gentle warmth that encased her. Husband’s mouth closed and Hot Pie turned to Arya and Gendry, buggy eyes widening before dropping to the surface of the stained table top, almost a red hue on his chubby cheeks. Arya laid back in her chair, Gendry taking the one beside her and ever so silent, resting one hand on the table and letting the other drip from his knee beneath the table. The balls of Arya’s feet were placed against the floor but she was still just too small unless she scooted to the lip of her chair. There was calmness in the air, still and heavy from the ale and food she had managed to tear her teeth into before and Hot Pie was silent, as if afraid to say anything to her. Husband narrowed his eyes at her, Arya all scrubbed clean and wearing fresh, albeit dusty, clothes and he tried to find the lady beneath, tried to find the daughter of Ned Stark. Only a lady in name and never in actions. She was only her mother’s daughter now.

Then Husband turned his eyes away, dropping his head to lean to Hot Pie and whispered in the fat boy’s ear before pulling away and giving Hot Pie a strange pat on his shoulder, like when her father used to amuse her antics of pulling flowers from beds of dirt and handing him bouquets of weeds and half dead things. She remembered how her mother would curl her lips in at the sight and Arya never would see the petals falling in an array of colours, wilting to brown around her mother’s vanity.

Husband stood and left the trio alone, the calmness in the air turning awkward as Hot Pie refused to meet Arya’s eyes, as if she were something poisonous. Arya chewed her lip, pulling at the chapped skin and trying not to wince at how tender the frail flesh was. It had been a heinous habit she had picked up from her lack of food she had seen since King’s Landing; the distraction would help curb her hunger but only for so long and she was sure soon enough her lips would be left a bloody mess, rouged as if painted like the ladies at court used to do. Her heart seemed too loud echoing in her chest and Arya cleared her throat.

“What was that about?” she asked, moving hands and resting them beneath either thigh, helping to warm and stop her hands from fidgeting. Her feet were high enough off the ground that Arya could kick them back and forth like she used to do when she was smaller, sitting beside Jon while working on her numbers and letters, talking loudly of all the stories she had read that were not for the eyes of a young lady, all filled to the brim and bursting at the seams with war and blood and death. Knights and dragons were always so much more interesting than damsels in distress and ladies in love.

“Nothing,” Hot Pie squeaked, a bit too quickly, brown eyes darting up and meeting with Arya’s before he dropped them again, flustered and finger tracing the knots in the wood, stars made into constellations. “Milady.”

Arya’s face fell just as Gendry smothered a cough disguised as laughter behind his hand. She turned to her friend beside her ( _her friend_ ) and glared at him as he tried to drag the corners of his mouth in order to prevent a smile taking place. Arya glared at him and pulled one of the hands beneath her legs out to hit the side of his knee, pursing her lips. His eyes were bright again, teasing and her action only caused the smile to quirk up further on his face.

“Shut up,” Arya snapped, but not as coldly or as rudely as she might have done in the past, when she was hungry and cold and alone. It was like when Bran would ask her how her lessons with Sansa went during dinner and she would curl her hand into a fist, bumping his shoulder and growling at her younger sibling while a wolfish grin would spread across his face. Her mother would snap at Arya to behave all the while Bran would pull faces at her. To prevent food being thrown, more often than not Robb would settle between the two, pinching both of them all the while acting as an innocent peace maker in his mother’s eyes.

“Of course, _milady_ ,” was his almost sing song reply, his summer sky eyes sparking beneath the curls of his hair, the glow of the fire making it seem so much warmer, less of the ink black she had grown accustomed to and more of a brown catching on the orange and gold, light running through the strands and staining them. His skin seemed golden now, unwashed in the haze of the heart instead of the watery light of the moon and it reminded Arya of the statues made of gold in the Sept, made for prayers and worshipping.

“I’m _not_ a lady,” Arya spat, but not as much venom as she intended which resulted in Gendry not wiping the smile from his face. His intent on teasing her far outweighed the risk of the next hit of her hand landing on his cheek. And the familiarity, the closeness they shared with their chairs pushed together unconsciously – _strength in numbers_ Arya kept telling herself – and how she could feel the heat of his body, a furnace, a hearth that never cooled, never went out, Arya felt pink cheeked, somewhat shy and soft spoken for such normalcy. Her hand returned to being squished beneath her leg and her hair slipped from behind her ear, a curtain cutting the warmth of her face from Gendry’s view.

Hot Pie’s eyes darted back and forth between the interaction, his mind rushing to keep up with the thoughts and his face screwed up for a brief moment, as if realisation hit and he was struggling to compose himself after the impact, and then his face fell, looking to Gendry with somewhat wide eyes that held a tint of feeling betrayed.

“You’ve know? Have you known all this time she was… a Lady?” Hot Pie asked, voice soft spoken and nothing at all like the loud boisterous tone that he sang in earlier. He still said the word with uncertainty and tried to get used to the taste of it on his tongue, as if it were too wrong to be said in the same sentence as Arya when applying to her.

Arya dropped her eyes from Hot Pie’s face, his lumpy mouth drooping downwards and eyebrows knotted together, and Gendry shuffled in his chair but she gave no sign of whether or not he should tell their only other travelling companion the truth. It wasn’t _her_ fault that Gendry was smarter than she had realised and figured out her true gender; _but you didn’t have to tell him who you really were,_ a sly voice snickered in the corner of her mind, laughing at her pitiful excuse for keeping a secret. A coil was wrapping around her heart and Arya bit her tongue; Hot Pie had shown time and time again that he couldn’t keep a secret, from when he had jumped out from behind the corpse of the burnt cottage, or when he asked Tom for directions to Riverrun. He had been a craven, hiding when she and Gendry fought the night Yoren choked on ribbons of his own blood. He had complained after escaping Harrenhal and had been terrible at staying awake when it was his time to take watch. Her hand swept her hair behind her ear again, still unused to the softness and shine as strands rushed over her fingers, and glanced to Gendry looked to be hesitating to answer.

“Yes,” Gendry answered, his reply being simple. Arya’s Stark grey eyes glanced back to Hot Pie, whose face, if possible, fell even further at Gendry’s voice and his buggy eyes dropped to the table top, chewing on his bottom lip and blinking, as if his brain was still trying to absorb the information. Arya remembered, after drinking from the river of death with curdled bodies floating like logs, how Gendry had called her _milady_ and how Hot Pie had stuttered the word. He knew she was a girl, Arya knew to be sure, but the thought of Arya, dirt covered and ratty hair Arya, being a Lady? The thought had been even laughable when she wore dresses and had her hair in braids, stitching and sewing along with her sister.

“Oh.”

It was silent; Hot Pie staring at the top of the burnt and stained table, the fire crackling and spitting out glowing embers, leaving dark freckles in the floorboards as Gendry and Arya exchanged a look, her biting her lip and him looking almost guilty for answering Hot Pie’s question with the truth. Then Hot Pie stood, legs of the chair scratching as the fat boy murmured about helping Sharna in the kitchen all the while not meeting Gendry and Arya’s eyes, his interest being in his shoes as he hobbled off, waddling side to side. Arya frowned as she watched him go and turned to Gendry.

“What’s with him?” she had never seen the boy so downcast before and she didn’t understand why had let the grey clouds in the sky above get to him, crackling with thunder and spitting lightning. Gendry turned to her, eyes the same as a storm at sea, and raised his eyebrows, as if she were either blind or stupid. Or both.

“He’s upset,” Gendry said, moving and resting both hands on the top of their table, lacing his fingers and scooting his chair in further, close to the edge of their table and closer to Arya so that they could keep their conversation away from any prying eyes and ears who sought to tug the words from Gendry’s mouth. Arya scrunched her face up and mimicked Gendry’s position, fingers and hands tingling as the blood rushed to the pale skin, lines of red from fabric that had been pressed against the impressionable skin, kisses from cotton.

“Why would he be upset?” Arya had pulled him from being captured, had saved him at Harrenhal and he was only alive because she had helped him. She could have left him in the hands of the Bloody Mummers, baking bread for murderers and rapists and waking up every morning wondering if the next time he lies down it would be in his shallow grave. Arya could have left him there to rot and not to weigh both her and Gendry down. They could have made it to Riverrun by now if Hot Pie hadn’t come along. By all accounts, she should have left him there. _So why didn’t you?_

Gendry looked away from her briefly, looking at his scarred and calloused palms and then tugged on his bottom lip with his teeth. At doing so, Arya dropped her eyes and felt a deeper red form in her cheeks, as if the embers flying from the fire had landed on her and had started to engulf her in its flames. Arya knew that her own habit of chewing on her bottom lip had spawned from trying to curb the never ending hunger that was digging its trench in her stomach, furthering and deepening every day, so she didn’t know why Gendry doing the same made her cheeks enflame, a spark and red petals blooming. _Silly, stupid girl, stop being so simple minded_ , Arya scolded herself but her inner voice shook, wavering and trembling on the air like a glass vase half caught on the lip of a table, between a void below and staying intact. At that, she turned redder but let her hair fall from being hooked behind her ear and brush against her cheeks.

“Because we kept a secret from him. We’ve been in this, all of us, since Yoren died and we’ve been keepin’ this from him. He probably thinks we don’t trust him,” Gendry explained, wringing his hands and unknotting them again as he turned to look at her and then Arya understood. She remembered what if felt like, being kept a secret. How when Robb and Jon would never tell her anything, or how Bran kept things from her, saying that she was a lady and that they shouldn’t even be playing with the other children anymore, especially her. Arya knew it was only a pitiful similarity compared to what they and Hot Pie have been through together.

Arya thought of how Hot Pie would sneak her food in Harrenhal, risking a beating for a crust of bread, or how he was more inclined to befriend her than Lommy; guilt, it had to be, swelling up in her and the frown carved its way deeper on her face. She might have been annoyed by Hot Pie but he was her friend, and Arya protected her friends. That’s why she had brought him along when they escaped Harrenhal, because, despite everything, despite him being somewhat of a liability, he had been her friend. Gendry was her friend, too, and Arya turned back to him.

“Would you be upset? If I kept a secret from you?” Arya questioned, somewhat wide eyed and leaning closer to him, not sure if it was him that was warmer or her cheeks. Gendry blinked, thick eyelashes reminding her of the wings of a butterfly; her hands tightened together on top of the table, ignoring the slick, thin coat of sweat on her palm as they maintained eye contact, grey clouds over the waves of a storming sea. Every breath was the rush of wind behind sails, powerful and nearly knocking Arya off her feet.

“If you had a good reason, then… no, I wouldn’t,” Gendry answered, blinking once, twice, three times before his eyebrow quirked again, turning his torso so that he face her almost completely, as if to show her that he was giving his entire attention. “ _Do_ you have any secrets?”

Arya thought of how she killed the fat boy in the stables, of how her brother was a King now and she was more a princess than a Lady now and how every night she spent so many ways of killing all her enemies, to slitting their throats so that they choked on their own blood to poking them full of holes so that they bleed out, a water skin with only thin leather so stop everything from spilling and staining. How she still feared the dark, and what hid in the shadows. And then, whispers made of wisps, how her heart would begin to jump when he smiled, how much Arya liked it whenever his hands would brush over her own, softer than silk ever was or ever could be, and that she cosuld sometimes feel the butterflies and their wings kissing her stomach.

“No, I don’t,” Arya decided, her mouth dry and stuffed with cotton, tongue unsticking from the roof of her mouth as she began to chew on the inside of her cheek, trying to stop the corner of her mouth from drooping or quirking. Her eyes dropped, examining her breeches, the dust that clung to the material in a thin layer, creases deeper than any chasm and unyielding as her eyes fluttered, shy and trying to sneak away before the words in her throat caught up to her tongue. “Do you?”

Arya peered at him from the corner of her eyes, eyelashes grazing against the tops of her cheeks, as she soaked him in, eyebrows together, a crease forming as his lips thinned in concentration. Gendry had a secret, but it seemed he knew not what it was and neither did Arya, but he carried himself differently, stood taller, stronger, than most men and lords she had seen. It was carved into his jaw, his nose, the shape of his lips, hidden in the night of his hair and the storm of eyes. It was a whisper that could not be heard and Arya’s mind was yelling at her, trying to make her realise – _but realise what?_ Maybe her father knew, maybe that’s why he had talked with Gendry. Maybe Gendry was the son of some knight or southern lord, it could be possible; her own father had a bastard, so of course there was some fat southern lord who had done the same. But Arya continue to drink him in, and couldn’t see what it was about him that had made Ned Stark seek him out, or even talk to him. Gendry was certainly taller than most boys, than most men even, and his hair was the blackest shade she had ever seen, almost purple in some lights, and his eyes were like ice but not cold, not as her father’s and Jon’s had been. Like a winter sea, waves battling with one another in a gruesome bloody war that no man could weather. Beneath the dirt and grime that stained his otherwise handsome face and the beard that shadowed his jaw, muscle jumping beneath the skin whenever he clenched his teeth, Arya found that it did not matter who he was, because before all that, most importantly, he was her _friend_. And her friend shook his head, curls bouncing and mesmerizing Arya for not even Sansa had curls as full and soft as his when her red ones had been cleaned and filled with the scent of vanilla. There was a smile on Gendry’s lips and Arya remembered to breathe.

“No, I don’t have any secrets,” Gendry said. “We’re friends, and that means we don’t keep secrets from one another.”

Arya didn’t think it would have been possible but her cheeks burned brighter, flames curling beneath the skin and embers sparking on the tips of her ears as her lips desperately fought against being broken across her face in a smile. A thought, a flicker of a memory, when she was ten and Bran sat across from her, hiding from her Septa with crumbs hanging from the corner of their mouth while stifling giggles, pinkies interlaced and whispering an unbreakable vow to one another. No longer fighting the urge to smile, her lips quirked gently, the action rusty, and she propped her elbow up, extending her little finger outwards while the rest were curled inwards into her palm, nails no longer biting the skin and Gendry’s eyes dropped to her hand, unsure and confused, then back to her.

“Here, you do this,” Arya said, other hand reaching forward and grabbing Gendry’s wrist, ignoring the flutter in her chest and in her stomach, mimicked the position she held with his; letting go (Arya hoped he hadn’t noticed how slick her palm was) Arya watched as Gendry’s hand twitched, before he brought it closer and then, his pinky finger, nearly as large as her index finger, wrapped around hers, the skin rough yet smooth, hooking her and locking her in place. The smile on her face turned brighter and Arya hadn’t realised how close they were then, how their hands were linked, elbows brushing against one another. The rest of the room hadn’t existed for a while, not that Arya cared.

“Now what?” his voice had dropped lower and he was staring at her, eyes unblinking and watching, waiting and Arya forgot that she could speak.

“We promise never to keep a secret from one another,” Arya whispered, unsure of why they were speaking in hushed tones, heads together, and voice cracking. “This is an unbreakable promise, so you can never go back on your word.”

He tried to suppress the grin on his face at Arya’s solemn words, unsure if she was serious or whether he should laugh. Suddenly, Arya felt silly and flustered at what she had said, and what she was doing; he probably thought her a child now, making such stupid promises and Arya wouldn’t blame him if he started laughing at her. Her eyes dropped down, hoping he wouldn’t see the embarrassed flush spreading on her cheeks, swallowing to soothe the ache in her throat. Then she heard him shuffle and glanced up through her eyelashes, seeing him lean closer with a gentle, soft smile gracing his lips as the finger hooked around hers on the table tightened.

“I promise never to keep a secret,” Gendry whispered, voice husky but eyes bright, not teasing or amusing her but with being genuine and such sincerity that Arya felt her breath catch, lungs unable to drag in the air that seemed to have disappeared around her. He was so close, that if she leaned in _she could just about_ –

“Lady Squab – or Arya Stark, as I believe it is now.”

They turned away from one another to see Tom pulling a chair to the opposite side of the table, legs screeching against the floor. Her back straightened, yanking her from her previous thoughts and from such close proximity to Gendry as he did the same, their elbows pushed off the table to hide such an intimate (Arya nearly turned red again at the thought) action but their fingers forgot to unwind themselves from being wrapped around each other, swinging back and forth slightly between the spaces of their chairs. Their laced hands were hidden from Tom’s view but there was a smile on his face, one Arya didn’t like, and Harwin took the other seat, lips pursed and eyes narrowed. Slowly, Gendry and Arya took back their hands for their own and sat back properly in their chairs, voices caught and tongue tied but unsure as to why. They hadn’t really done anything wrong, per say, but the implication in Tom’s snarky grin made Arya feel they had.

“So tell me how does a highborn lady and a bastard manage to make it from King’s Landing to here without being caught?” Tom quizzed, eyes looking to Gendry and back to Arya. Whatever light mood the two had before Tom and Harwin sat down was now long gone, like smoke disappearing into the open air. The bandage around Tom’s arm still didn’t invoke any guilt within Arya – in fact, it made her feel smug that she had manage to maim the singer.

The smile and light in Gendry’s eyes faded and he clenched his jaw again, reverting to the coldness she had witnessed in Harrenhal; it was something she never wanted to see again.

“It was Yoren, he helped us until…” Her voice trailed off and memories resurfaced; the black brother choking on his blood, red staining his pale cheeks and beard, spluttering and spitting as the tongue of the sword was shoved down the back of his neck. The smell had nearly made her vomit but now it was something Arya had grown accustomed to.

“He was killed by Goldcloaks,” Gendry finished as if he was seeing it too, seeing Yoren die so that Gendry would not have to. She could see it in his face, how it was scrunched up and his hands now curled into fists.

 _He blames himself,_ a voice whispered in Arya’s head. Unthinking, making sure to keep her movement sly, her hand reached out beneath the table and hesitantly placed itself over the back of his fist, nearly hissing at the heat. He made no indication to the other two who sat across from them what she had down and Arya let her hand curl over his large paw, trying to pry his fingers from digging into his palm and he let her do so. All the while, her heart hammered in her throat but Arya schooled her features to remain calm and collected, to not match the wildness and girly shyness that was consuming her lately.

“Goldcloaks, eh? What were Goldcloaks doin’ so far ‘way from King’s Landing?” Tom probed further, oblivious to Arya and Gendry’s interaction.

He tightened his grip on her hand but not painfully so and Arya was unsure of  whether she should answer Tom; they might have decided to protect her but who knows what they would do to Gendry? There were so many and there was only two of them to fight. _I’d never let them,_ she hissed and looked to Gendry.

“They were looking for me,” Gendry finally said, voice strained and unsure watching as Tom’s eyebrows darting up his forehead.

“Why were they lookin’ for _you_?” Tom leaned in closer, elbows on the table and hands laced together; he didn’t sound as if he was insulting Gendry, more so shocked at the thought the Goldcloaks had been searching for Gendry and not the late Hand’s daughter. Gendry’s eyes darkened and Arya felt his hand tighten around hers just that bit more.

“I don’t know _why_ they were lookin’ for me, they just _were_ ,” Gendry grunted through clenched teeth, evidently wanting nothing more than to move on from their current subject at hand lest someone over here and all too willingly hand him over to the Queen and King as if they were waiting outside.

Tom’s face darkened and he looked to Harwin who had remained silent, their eyes meeting and a look of disgust passed over both Harwin and Tom’s face.

“Worthless, the lot o’ them,” Harwin spat, leaning back in his chair and wrapping his arms over his chest. “Child killers, that’s what they are. Killed babies not yet from their mother’s breast at the King’s orders. Some king. I say it was good you got away, lad. Mighty good, who knows what they might have done to you?”

The thought made Arya’s stomach churn. She wasn’t surprised that Joffrey had sent his dogs on a murderous rampage but the curiosity in her lit and she wanted to ask _why_ he had given the orders. But now was not the time; she could learn later, maybe even ask if they have any news of Sansa. Arya hoped her sister was alright, that she was safe and unharmed. Sansa was only a little lady, not made for war, only for the prettiest of dresses and daintiest of shoes.

“So where’d you get the horses then?” Tom asked.

“We stole them from Harrenhal after being captured by the Mountain’s men,” Arya replied, her tone void of any emotion and the bile threatening to force its way up her throat.

Tom and Harwin turned to her, eyes wide and the blood rushing from their faces, shock appearing at her words. They must have heard the stories, surely; no one in the Riverlands had not heard of the occupation of Harrenhal by Tywin Lannister and, now, the Bloody Mummers. If not, they had seen the devastation caused, the land razed by the Mountain and his men. The air was chilly and all those images, all those nightmares of being back in that barn resurfaced, every day waking and wondering if she will die that day, wondering if it will be her crying, screaming, while being raped, violated by those monsters. In that barn, there were no gods. Her knuckles were white, pale and stretched over bone and she anchored herself to Gendry, trying not to drown in those horrible memories. The stench of death still lingered and Arya wanted to upheave the bread she had eaten earlier onto the floor.

“By the Gods, Arya,” Harwin whispered, unblinking and frightened. “Fuckin’ Seven Hells, the _Mountain?_ Are you – did anything happen?”

She thought of the rats that nipped at her when she tried to sleep, the stench of the dead bodies with maggots curling in and around the flesh. The screams of the torture, how they begged for mercy, begged for death, begged for their gods to save them. How she would watch them, bone beneath feet, the screams making it through the blood they choked on. Their bowels emptying and the laughter of the monsters. The young girls who cried and wept and screamed, faces pressed down in the dirt and trying to claw their way into a peaceful grave as each man took his turn. How the whispers of the names would rattle her brain and no other words were able to form on her tongue. Her demons demanded a sacrifice and all she could offer was her tired mind and soul and the promise that their bloodlust would be sated and her father avenged.

“No, nothing happened,” was her quiet faraway reply.

Gendry’s face was dark as well and she hadn’t realised how tight she was holding onto him until her stiff fingers called her attention, loosening her grip but not letting go.

“They kept asking for the Brotherhood without Banners, asking for gold, for someone called Beric Dondarrion.” _Where are the Brotherhood without Banners? Where is Beric Dondarrion? Where is the gold? Where is the gold?_

Tom swallowed, leaning back in his chair and exchanging a glance with Harwin that Arya caught, her eyes narrowing and sharpening as neither men spoke but it was enough for Arya to sink her teeth into them.

“What? What is it?” Arya snapped, gaze darting back and forth between the singer and her father’s man, but both were hesitating to speak before Harwin decided it be him and pulled his chair in closer to the lip of the table.

“Arya…” he began, unsure and scratching the back of his neck. A rock formed in her stomach and was only dropping. “After the death of your father… I couldn’t go back to King’s Landing. There… there was nothing for me there. I know that most the men are dead. King Robert is dead that his son… well… you can see that he isn’t exactly the heir we envisioned after Robert.”

Her heart stopped and anger curled around her heart, eyes dangerous like shards of ice. “Nothing for you there? I was there! Sansa was there! She still is! She’s trapped there! You didn’t think to come back for us?!” her hiss was dripping with venom and her vision turned red, free hand curling into her palm and shaking to restrain herself from leaping across the table and hitting Harwin.

“I – I know,” he managed to choke out but it was pathetic, half assed. “But… with war, you have to realise that sometimes allegiances can change and mine lie with the Brotherhood now.”

“The Brotherhood?” Gendry echoed, eyes far away and then his mind slipped the last puzzle piece together and realisation hit, face dropping on impact. Arya looked to him, to Harwin, to Tom, to the men around her and the rock in her stomach threatened to be brought up. _No… no, no, no_. These men… these men were the reason all those people died? Did they even know? Did they even care what they had done?

“We fight for the freedom of the common people,” Tom explained, his hushed voice carrying to Arya’s ears but she didn’t care enough to let the words sink in. “We fight for – ”

“You’re murderers.”

Gendry’s voice was steel, calm but sharp that it cut Tom off from completing his sentence. The singer turned his eyes towards the blacksmith, lips pressed together as Harwin dropped his eyes with enough decency to feel ashamed.

“That village… do you even know what you did?”

“They knew what they were doing – ”

“And do _you_ know what the _Mountain_ was doing? That he tortured men, women and children who never hurt anyone, while you sat here and did _nothing_ ,” Gendry spat. Arya turned to her friend, feeling that whatever anger she had within her, a curling ball of flames, was nothing now, fading away in the presence of him. Arya stared at him, at how he was no longer the boy who teased her and made her laugh. The room filled with a chill and Arya suppressed a shiver as their table grew cold and still. There was a fury in his eyes, nothing like she had ever seen, not even from her father. There was only one time Arya had seen her father angry and it had been when Robb and Theon had been caught in a brothel by Ser Rodrik after the boys were seen sneaking out. She had seen Robb with his head hung in shame, after trying to convince his father he hadn’t slept with any of the whores, and Theon stood, tall and tight lipped as Ned Stark was replaced by Lord Eddard Stark, cold and sharp like Ice, cutting into them. But now, her father’s anger, what she had seen of it, seemed dim to what Arya saw in Gendry. Ice had nothing compared to the storm, eyes thunder and lightning, crackling. No one could hope to win against a raging sea. And it was frightening to witness.

“You’re not fighting for the people; you’re fighting for yourselves, fighting for a fat, dead king who whored more than he ruled.” People were beginning to turn around, ears catching on Gendry’s words and eyes narrowing as Tom and Harwin tried to find words.

“We want to protect the people – ” Harwin began lamely but was cut off.

“You don’t protect the people. _You’re a disease_.” Gendry stood to his feet, his height much more menacing as Arya’s hand dropped from his and now the room was silent, all on their group and watching, waiting to see what would happen. Arya’s heart was pounding in her chest and she was panicking, wishing for her sword in case something went wrong. “You’re nothing but a bunch of cowards! Murderers and thieves!”

“Gendry, lad, calm – ” Tom began. Arya could see Anguy narrowing his eyes and placing a hand on his bow as Lem glared.

“Don’t. Call me _lad_ ,” Gendry hissed, nostrils flaring and his fists shook at his sides. There was a moment’s pause before Gendry spoke again. “You’re no better than _them._ ”

With that, Gendry turned on his heel, fury rolling off of him as eyes watched him go, including Arya’s. Her heart stood still in her chest and she was glued to her chest for the briefest of moments, watching him barrel out the door before her body remembered to move, standing to her feet to follow him out.

“Arya, don’t – ” It was Harwin who spoke, but Arya silenced him by looking over her shoulder at him, eyes sharp and like her father’s, cold and unfeeling.

“Don’t you _dare_ tell me what to do,” she spat and turned to follow Gendry, not caring about the eyes that trailed after her. They were nothing now, unimportant and insignificant. Her boots hit the dirt of the earth before she realised and her eyes struggled for a moment to readjust to the sudden dark blueness of the night, stars twinkling and winking at her over head in comparison to the warm, golden glow of the inn behind her. She scourged the immediate area, trying to use the light from behind her to help spot Gendry’s outline. Her eyes rushed over him before darting back, relief and worry flourishing in her as her lip found its way in the grip of her teeth.

The wind rushed over the leaves and grass, sighing as the water gurgled and slurped happily, oblivious to the tension. Hands fidgeting, she wrapped her arms over her chest and tried to make her way silently to where Gendry sat near the river bed, almost slumped and small now, being swallowed by the dark of the night. Arya nearly missed the feeling of being barefoot, of being silent and not having to worry of snapping a branch or crushing a dead leaf beneath her steps that would alert anyone of her presence; he had heard her, of course he did, but he gave no turn of his heard or word of recognition. It was silent as Arya sat down beside her friend, the familiar feel of the dirt between her fingers as her knees were pulled close to her chest, arms wrapped around her knees and looking across the rushing river, waiting for him to speak or for her to find the right words to say.

It was him that spoke first.

“I’m sorry… I got angry,” his voice was hoarse now, and he wasn’t looking at her. He was tearing grass from their roots, choking them and ripping them apart. “I didn’t want you to see that.” _Boys_ , a voice in her sighed.

“I was angry too,” Arya admitted, watching him, watching his face scrunch up, resting her cheek against her knees. “I wanted to hit Harwin for what he said, for what he’s done.” Her hand was a fist again and she thought about getting to her feet and rushing inside and still doing so, but there were more important things at hand.

“It’s always the same,” Gendry choked out, stopping his actions and blinking, eyes shining bright even through the darkness. “It’s always us, common people, who get caught in the middle of this mess. It’s never the lords or ladies in high castles that get hurt first, it’s always _us._ It’s always been that way; it always will be that way. And they… they pretend to protect the people but you _saw_ what happened, with the Mountain.”

Arya did see it, had made herself watch to remember and had heard it too. It haunted her, haunted her waking moments and stole away any peaceful hours of sleep she might have caught.

“Do you ever dream about what happened?” Was that her voice? The words left her mouth but she sounded so small, soft and fragile as if she was made of such thin glass that could be broken into a million pieces by the gentlest of breezes. She was still gazing at him but her eyes were hazy, as if there were tears that wanted to come forth but it wasn’t within her to cry any more. Gendry turned to Arya and Arya could see it in his eyes too; the never ending fear and fright, the nightmares and demons that plagued every living moment. He seemed so young then, so much like a boy and not a man that he appeared to be.

“All the time.”

He had never sounded so defeated, so tired and broken; the words hurt, an ache where her heart should be and Arya blinked, trying to shove the lump down her throat. All this time, Arya had thought she was alone, thought that all she went through, all she had done, it had been alone, that no one could match the suffering she had been witnessed, the suffering she had been through. But that hadn’t been true. It had been Gendry, and Hot Pie, that had been there with her every step of the way. It had been Gendry who had saved her from being raped that night, had helped her after being nearly beaten into her grave. Gendry, who had suffered as much as she. Gendry who had nightmares, who needed her just as much as she needed him because who else did they have? Who else had been through what they have been through?

Her body ached, craved, and it took everything within Arya to not throw her arms around him. Instead, she crept closer, hips bumping against one another and took a shaky breath, begging herself not to fall apart. It was hard to remember she was ten and three, that it would have been okay to cry but what was crying to accomplish? Glazed eyes stared out across the river and then she let her head fall against his shoulder, unwinding an arm that was around her knee to let the hand fall on his, holding it, squeezing it, giving as much comfort as she was able.

“You’re my friend,” Arya whispered. “I wish you had never gone through that.”

A pause and then Gendry turned his hand, palm upwards, and clasped her hand again, this time fingers lacing between hers, a deeper shade of gold with a paler shade. A weight fell against the top of her head and Arya let herself drown in the comfort, the simple familiarity, but strange feeling, of human contact.

“I wish you hadn’t, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ending is very choppy and rushed because I am getting a new laptop tomorrow (well, today since it's past midnight) and I didn't want to do a transfer of files. I'll edit it later and give a notice when I do it, but enjoy the earlier Gendrya parts.
> 
> Can anyone tell I just love writing references to Gendry's parentage? Honestly, I don't even realise what I'm doing until I have a paragraph written; the amount of references is getting ridiculous. 
> 
> Also, I have decided I want this fic to be finished by December 2018 but it might be Spring 2019 since I am entering my last year of secondary school so that means less time for writing and more time for studying.
> 
> tell seokjin to tell namjoon to tell yoongi to tell hobi to tell taehyung to tell jimin to tell jeongguk thanks for his covers of various songs that gave me energy to write this chapter and that i would steal all the stars from the sky for him
> 
> Just a quick reminder that I love it when people comment or drop pieces of validation! It's food for the soul of a very tired writer!


	20. The Night is Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amidst the war ravaging the land of Westeros, a lone Stark must find her way home, to her true family.
> 
> And yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I do not own any of the characters, places or story lines (unless stated otherwise) mentioned in the work; they all belong to their owner: G.R.R Martin  
> \- Mostly original dialogue.  
> \- A work of fiction previously known as "The Bull and the Wolf."  
> \- comments are very much appreciated!  
> \- for any more information, check out my profile!

**_Chapter Twenty._ **

They lingered beside the river, watching the water flow and slowly but surely wearing away the riverbed, reeds and blades of grass being caught beneath the surface of the water. Dusk had long since said its farewell but ink of the night could not yet completely push the pink and orange hues of the sun away from the blanket of the sky. The tree line prevented Arya from seeing the sun set but her eyes could wander to the stars now, let herself connect dots in her mind that took the shape of Nymeria and her Needle. She wished she could use the stars to navigate her way home but they were just a mess as her thoughts were.

Gendry was warm and silent beside her, the weight and feel of his cheek against the top of her head pleasant and giving her a sense of comfort, of familiarity. Their hands were entwined, two shades of gold knotted in one another, and Arya let her eyes fall to their laced fingers. It didn’t quite feel real, as if her arm were a phantom and that what she was doing, what  _they_ were doing, wasn’t real, that it was like the cruel dreams she suffered through, filled with her family and Jon Snow smiling; it would make her feel the happiness of a thousand and one suns, threatening to burst and explode with tears spilling past the seams, but then she would wake. Arya wanted to pinch herself, to wake up instead of continuing to let herself fall into the dream and be happy even if for a moment. But she stayed, still and trying to ignore the dull ache in her cheek from its position against Gendry’s shoulder.

Her heart fluttered in her chest, from nervousness and uncertainty, and Arya let out a long breath that had been gathering in her lungs, rushing out past her lips. There were no crickets hiding in hedges or owls soaring through the leaves of the tree; the world didn’t seem to exist past the river, all condensed into the small, golden inn and the small space that Arya and Gendry occupied. From where she sat, side by side with her friend, it was hard to imagine that she shared the same earth with Robb and with her mother; hard to imagine that miles away, Sansa lay in bed, covered in silks and lies, hard to imagine that there was a path that could lead her back home to Winterfell. It was hard to imagine that somewhere, beneath the stars, Jon Snow was looking up from atop of the wall, breath fogging and sharing the same moon as Arya. Could her brother really be alive, watching the stars as she was wondering about the little sister who he left behind?

 It hurt, hurt to remember his face, hurt to remember how he left her and how she was so alone now. Robb was a King fighting a war, no longer the brother who used to play maidens-and-monsters in the crypts; Sansa was a Lady locked in her silks and chains but head in the clouds, above the oceans of war and death and blood. Bran lay broken, lost in his own sleep and mind and his direwolf without its master. Little Rickon, all afraid and so fearsome, more likely to bite than his own wolf. Father was dead. Did her mother even know what had happened to her two daughters?  _Did she care what has become of me?_

But…

It didn’t hurt, not as much as it used to; maybe it was because she was safe, stomach filled with food, body clean from all the dirt and bad memories that had accumulated. Maybe it was because Harwin was going to take her home, take her back to Robb and to Mother. Maybe it was because soon, she would be with Bran and Rickon and they would get Sansa back if the North had to storm King’s Landing itself. Maybe it didn’t hurt because there was hope now, hope that she could become Arya Stark again, see Winterfell again.  _Maybe it’s because of the warmth in her hand, anchoring her down and reminding her she wasn’t alone anymore._

Arya let out another deep breath, as if to was away all the fear and anger that had been stewing in her veins and tried, tried so very hard, to think of home, to think that every step, every breath, meant she was closer to going back to Winterfell. There was a hole in her heart the shape of Winterfell but it was being rebuilt, slowly, steadily, the foundations no longer cracking and falling apart. Arya was rebuilding herself from within, trying to get rid of all the nightmares and monsters that had festered her mind and bones for too long; home was so close, yet so far away, and she needed to stay strong, needed to hang on to the image of Robb and Mother and Bran and Rickon. Hang onto the hope that they’ll be able to save Sansa from the lions. Hang onto the hope that Jon will be waiting for her, that small, soft smile on his lips and his hand ruffling her, calling her little sister.

That hope, of home, of family, and the hand she held, made Arya want to no longer be Nan or Arry or Squab or Lumpyhead. She only ever wanted to be Arya Stark.

The cold breeze was pleasant as they watched the river in silence, both too afraid to shatter the silence and the peace to step back into reality disguised as the inn. Arya could still hear the men behind her, talking, laughing, not a care in the world while gulping their watered-down ale and chomping on their burnt and stale bread. The thought of food, however bad, made Arya’s stomach grumble and her parched throat ached a little; the feel was familiar and Arya almost went to ignore it, push it down before it would rear its head again, until she remembered that she didn’t need to ignore the hunger and thirst that haunted her, not anymore. Then she remembered that Gendry hadn’t eaten either; Arya knew it had been some while since he ate or drank anything, despite him not saying so.

So, despite wanting nothing more than to sit there in that moment, in that single heartbeat of a moment that was filled with only the hope of home and the anchor in her hand, Arya pulled her cheek from where it rested on his shoulder, the weight of Gendry’s own cheek fading away as the bones in her neck creaked like an old, rusted hinge of a door. Her body felt lazy, heavy, not wanting to move after months of walk and running and being filled with fear, sloshing and burning her from the inside out. She longed to stretch her bones and to fall into a featherbed, to sip warm milk and honey with the fire crackling and Nymeria at the foot of her bed. But this wasn’t a dream and Arya would take what she could get.

Their hands still lay laced around one another, Arya’s hand cupped in Gendry’s much larger hand, hidden from the view of anyone who would try to sneak up on them. The warmth was seeping up her arm and Arya kept remembering of those times when she would take up to find her limbs entangled with Gendry’s, arm over chest and legs knotted. The memories didn’t make her feel ashamed or red faced anymore; people slept next to each other for warmth all the time, and no one would blame them for doing so for that reason. The moon, ever so steadily creeping up in the sky, washed its silver light over them, making it feel as if Arya was stuck in one of Sansa’s songs, only she was no fair maiden in need of rescue and Gendry was not some thick-headed knight.

Arya let her eyes linger on their hands for a brief moment, remembering how her mother and father used to hold hands, clasped beneath their furred cloaks as if to shield them, her father tracing circles and galaxies on the back of Lady Catelyn’s soft, lily white hand. Arya’s hand was littered with scars, both old and new, healing and white with age, against a golden backdrop that faded up her arm before being cut off where she used to roll the sleeves of Gendry’s tunic up to catch at the crook of her elbow. Gendry’s hand was like her father’s, rough and calloused, a warrior’s hand. But Gendry was just a blacksmith boy, he had never fought in any great battles, had never killed anyone.  _Not like me._

Arya thought about tracing the scars with her other hand, running the pads of her fingers across the plain of his marked, golden skin as if they held the answers she was desperate for.  _Why did Father have to die? Why did Jon leave? Why did all this happen? Why, why, why?_ Maybe the gods were laughing at her now, laughing at how helpless and lost she was with the world being pulled out from under her feet.

Instead, she pulled her eyes away and took a breath as if to drown all her thoughts and demons and forced a smile on the corner of her lips, meeting Gendry’s eyes.

“Let’s go back inside,” Arya said, voice soft and feathery, but strong enough to be heard over the ruckus behind them. At her words Gendry dropped his gaze back to the river. A breeze ran through his curls, Arya’s own strands catching on her cheeks and eyelashes.

“Not yet,” he replied, hesitant and stubborn. Arya knew the feeling; whenever she thrown a fit back home, be it not being allowed to ride the horses using breeches or being banned from the courtyard when the boys were practising sword fighting, all the anger she had felt in that moment had faded away into embarrassment, not wanting to be seen and not wanting to be heard. Maybe Gendry felt the same way, feeling unsure about re-entering the inn after having lost his temper at men who were armed outlaws. Arya would have felt the same only she would have run instead of cooling off, would have taken her horse and galloped all the way to Riverrun before she could be caught.

 “You have to come back inside,” Arya urged, trying to grab his attention but he seemed all too dedicated to not meeting her eyes. “You have to eat sooner or later.”

“I’ll choose later,” was his snort and Arya’s smile dropped into a scowl. Their hands, which up until that moment had still been knotted together, were freed as Arya brought it to clap him on the shoulder, the cool night air a blissful, but empty, feeling.

“Don’t be stupid,” Arya snapped, already pushing herself to her feet as Gendry stayed on the forest floor, stretching and re-stretching the fingers of the hand she held not mere moments ago. Her hands found their way on the swell of her hips, staying down at him which was not something Arya was ever able to do due to Gendry’s immense height. “You’re not going to sit out here and sulk. You need to eat.”

Gendry turned his head, offended by her comment. “I’m not  _sulking_.”

“You’re acting like you are,” Arya bit, pursing her lips as a silence fell on them, save for the laughter of the men and the playful gurgle of the water. The call of food and drink was becoming louder, as was the growling of her stomach that was more familiar than any song that had been shoved down her throat. Biting her lip, Arya dropped the hands on her hip and moved so that she stood right next to him, extending an arm out as if it were an olive branch. Peace, that was what she wanted. Peace and food and sleep. He wanted it too, Arya could see it from the purple hanging from beneath his eyes. He looked to her outstretched hand and Arya wondered if he would ignore it, to sit by the riverside and brood.

He stared for a moment as Arya chewed her lip, a habit she needed to break, before he let out a sigh that had been building up and his hand found hers again. He didn’t need help standing to his feet, he weighed for more than Arya and was far taller than her, but the implication was there; they were friends now, they were supposed to help each other. She pulled his hand towards her as he stood, unfolding his legs beneath him with leaves and blades of grass catching on the material of his breeches and he stood tall, her head barely reaching his shoulder. Arya had always been small and skinny but her bones no longer ached with the promise of growth, they only hurt from the tiredness and exhausted that could not be cast away. Their hands stayed clasped between them, space given as Gendry brushed the dirt from his already too dirty breeches, delaying their re-entry into the inn that Arya equally dreaded. She could no longer look at Harwin as the man who used to lead her pony around the courtyard or the man who would call her Arya Underfoot. He was an outlaw, abandoning the Starks, abandoning  _her._ He had changed, and so had she. They could not unravel the threads that had made them what they were now without completely falling apart.

Arya did not let go of Gendry’s hand and he made no move to let go of hers, holding each other up under the guise of the benefit of the other. She thought about taking the boat, of sailing all the way to Mother and Robb with Gendry at her side.  _We could do it,_  a small voice whispered,  _there’s no one around. They’d never know._ It was a childish hope; it was one Arya knew would not happen. Someone could step out the moment they stepped into the boat. Anguy still had his bow and would be more than likely be all too happy to shoot down the little girl who smashed his face in with a tankard. But… there was a chance they could get away, a chance they might get far away that the Brotherhood would have no chance of catching up to them. They could make it to Riverrun in a few days, she could see Robb and Mother. It was a thought Arya could not push away as she held Gendry’s hand, grip tightening as her heart began to pound.  _We could do it if we’re quick enough._

“Gendry…” her voice was a dangerous whisper and her palms began to become slick with sweat. The urgency was clear as she stepped closer, so as to not risk being over heard by strange ears. “The boat, we could get in the boat and get away from here.”

His eyebrows furrowed and he glanced one way, towards where the rickety boat sat tied up, then another way, towards the inn that was full when armed men who weren’t about to let the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark leave so easily.

“I’ve never been in a boat and I don’t know how to work it,” he confessed but not disagreeing with her. Nervousness disguised as giddiness was leaping within Arya as she swallowed to soothe her parched throat. She knew the basics of how to sail a boat; when to put up the sails, when to drop them, how to use the oars. She could learn along the way; Arya was always a fast learner when it came to practical things and not silly things like knitting and learning poems.

“I do. We could take it to Riverrun up along the Trident. We could do it now, we could get in and leave right now,” Arya’s fast whispers were hoarse but desperate, the thought of going home being so overwhelming it was hard to breathe now with ragged gulps of air filling her lungs.

“They’d catch us before we could untie the rope. They could be watching us right now.” He was right, of course he was right, but Arya didn’t want to quash that tiny candle flicker of hope, not again. Arya went to speak again, to beg even, when another voice spoke out and the flame was gone.

“I thought you two might have run off,” spoke Harwin, voice gruff as he stepped into the night, scratching his beard while Gendry dropped his hand from Arya’s, the space between them growing more as Arya turned her gaze at her father’s former man. The tension from before had returned like a dark cloud but slightly lessened without the prying ears and eyes and knowing they were surrounded by armed men.

A scowl appeared on Gendry’s face and he did not look away from Harwin as the two stared at each other, Arya out of the loop. The last thing she needed was for anyone to suspect her and Gendry of even attempted to escape. She couldn’t really be Arya Stark, not even here; the real Arya Stark would have fought them all off with Needle and run off into the forest with Gendry without a second look. They wouldn’t have to worry about outlaws or bandits, they’d never have to feel fear ever again. They could be whoever they wanted to be and no one would ever be able to stop them. But now, Arya had to hide, had to use words instead of her sword, had to be careful with her steps and what she said. She couldn’t let them know.

“We were about to,” she piped up, almost cringing at how shaky and sharp she sounded. “But… we thought everyone would be mad at us.” She saw Gendry give her a sharp side look at her half lie, half-truth but Arya ignored him, electing instead to look as innocent as she could, ignoring her slick palms as Harwin looked at her, eyes narrowed and unsure if he should believe her or not. But his doubt was cast aside as a soft smile, one that was a ghost of the smile Arya used to see back in Winterfell.

“There’s no need to worry about that,” Harwin assured and the light in his eyes suggested the smile was genuine, not forced for the sake of hoping to rope them back into the inn with false comfort. “Gendry… you were right to be upset. Hasn’t been sitting well what happened to that village. No one blames you for feeling the way you do about us. I only ask that you give us a chance to change your mind.”

Both Gendry and Arya blinked before looking to one another and then back to Harwin.

The man’s attitude had changed completely towards the boy, though both were unsure if it was a trick or truly how the man felt. Arya narrowed her eyes at Harwin as Gendry stood nearly speechless at how…  _polite_  he was being. The change in attitude made Arya suspicious, wondering what had made Harwin change his mind about Gendry. Hadn’t Gendry said that Harwin told him he was just a lowborn bastard? Even from the way he stared at Gendry beforehand, it was clear to see that Harwin did not favour Gendry’s presence but now…

“Oh,” was Gendry’s reply, letting whatever he was going to say die in his throat and there was another interval of silence, filled only with the sounds from inside the inn. Clearing his throat, Harwin spoke again and his smile grew wider beneath the bush of the beard on his cheeks and jaw, clapping his hands together and rubbing his palms back and forth.

“Let’s go back inside, I’m freezing my balls off out here and I’m pretty sure Sharna is done cookin’ the food.”

Once again, a look passed between Gendry and Arya, the latter trying to see if they should follow or not before the call of food was shouted inside, to a very glad and tired crowd. Whatever uncertainty they held was tossed aside at the prospect of food and drink

* * *

 

Arya thought that if Septa Mordane saw her right now, the old woman would have a heart attack.

It wasn’t that there was a lack of eating utensils provided, it’s just Arya found it more effective to tear the meat and bread with her hands and teeth, gulping down the watery ale all the while careful not to over eat lest she end up vomiting on Sharna’s floorboards. Arya licked the crumbs and grease from her fingertips and didn’t feel embarrassed as she should have been, knowing that the men across from her weren’t judging her lack of table manners as they drank from their tankards, a pink glow on their cheeks from the alcohol.

Arya felt more herself with a full stomach, as if the past few months had never happened and it was all a bad dream. She could be eating back home in Winterfell and the food was a grand feast but then Arya felt silly for imagining such things, acting like the child she no longer could be. Gendry was beside her, taking his time with his food, still waiting for someone to jump out and attack. He remained suspicious, untrusting of these men - not that Arya blamed him; she only wanted to eat her fill before anyone could take it from her. 

Harwin spoke of all that happened since being sent by her father to go with Beric Dondarrion to hunt the Mountain down; Arya spoke of how Lannister men attacked the Northerners and how Hullen lay in the stables, bleeding out with blood staining the gold strands red. Red and gold, the colours of Lannister. It made Arya pause her wolfing down of the food before she continued; dead men didn’t need to eat but she did.

She could feel the eyes on both her and Gendry but Arya tried to ignore them; she had been laughed at her entire life by other boys and other ladies, like Sansa and Jeyne Poole, it was something she was used to and she had grown a master at ignoring eyes staring at her. Gendry, however, seemed too uncomfortable with the attention, gazes flickering back and forth between the wolf girl and the bull-headed boy. Arya wanted to reach beneath the table and hold his hand again, to ease his uneasiness, but he had both atop of the table now, in plain sight as if taunting her.

“Have you any news of Sansa?” Arya asked Harwin, praying and hoping that her sister didn’t end up like their father. For all the wrongs Sansa had done by Arya, wolves needed to stick together and the only way a pack to be broken up was by fighting with one another. Harwin gave a shrug and took a sip.

“Not much other than she’s being held hostage. I don’t know what’s going on inside the Red Keep, no one does,” he sighed. Arya’s stomach churned at the thought of Sansa, pretty and pure Sansa, being locked in one of the dirty, damp and dark cells. “She’s still to wed that bastard Joffrey from what I’ve heard. A disgusting thing to do; making a girl marry the monster that murdered her father.”  _He was always a monster; no one ever listened or believed me when I said he was._ Arya told herself the ache in her stomach was from being full but she knew that wasn’t the truth.

“How is it that the king hasn’t been sending out men to look for you?” Gendry asked. “You’re outlaws and fighting against the king; I thought he would try to put a stop to that.”

Tom gave a snort into his tankard and rolled his eyes. “That little prick doesn’t have the time or the men to spare while his grandfather is fighting a war against Robb Stark. The most trouble we get is a few ballsy robbers and some of the Mountain’s men. Maybe the Bloody Mummers, if we’re lucky.”

Arya thought of Vargo Hoat with his slobbering tongue too big for his mouth with spit dribbling down his chin and how cruel he was. She hoped that his death would be a slow and painful one. Maybe she could do it herself when she got Needle back.  _If… if I ever Needle back._ It was lost to her now, the only thing she had to remind herself of Jon Snow and his smile, of his hugs and how he would kiss the scrapes on her knees. After all this time, all Arya wanted was for her big brother to hug her and lie that it was all going to be okay. But she wasn’t a child anymore; she was a woman now and had killed men with her own hands. Sometimes the smell of blood could never be washed away, not completely.

“Is Robb okay?” Arya questioned, too terrified to hear the answer.

“He’s fine,” Harwin assured, much to her relief. “Last I heard, he’s made a pact with the Freys and is engaged to one his Lord Walder’s daughters.”

Arya would have laughed if she was able. Tom gave a snicker and a sign, muttering  _poor bastard_  beneath his breath. Arya had heard little of Lord Walder Frey, but what she had heard from the mouths of men was nothing more than curses at the old Lord, who was far fonder of young women and many wives than ruling over his many, many heirs. Only his wickedness kept him alive while his offspring sat in the shadows, feigning loyalty and praying for their lord's death.

"My mother?" Was her next inquiry, halting her eating to instead digest any and all information that the two men had to offer in exchange. Arya couldn't really summon the image of her lady mother within her mind anymore, the hair would be to dark, the eyes not the right shade of blue, the wrong curve of her jaw. It frightened Arya to not know what her mother looked like after all this time.  _Fear cuts deeper than swords._

"Travelling with your brother, I believe," grunted Harwin, scratching at his thick and wild beard. Harwin seemed thinner and far older than he really was. He looked like a ghost of his former self. "We haven't heard much, only bits and pieces that could be weeks old by now."

The thought of that made Arya's throat tighten; for all she knew, at this moment Robb or her mother could be dead right now and she wouldn't know until months later. Her hunger vanished into wisps and Arya tried to push the image of Robb's bloodied and beaten corpse from her mind, trying not to think of his own red curls stained by scarlet. Rhaegar Targaryen and his chest of rubies, each scattering and breaking apart like falling stars and how she had spent hours in the water with her dress rolled up with hopes to find a single twinkling red gem, drowning beneath the surface of the water.

"It's best we get you back as soon as," Harwin spoke, clearing his throat and lacing his fingers together atop of the table, shuffling in his chair with an air of nervousness. Maybe he was nervous of being branded a turn cloak when they were at Riverrun by Robb?  _If he keeps his promise, then I'll promise to speak on his behalf. Unless he decides to hide like a craven._ "I'll ask Sharna for a separate room so you can get some rest."

He was talking as if she was a child again, that she needed to be put to bed. Maybe he thought to swaddle her like a baby, too. It irked Arya that her hands curled into fists.  _I'm not a child. I am a wolf who has killed more men than he thinks._ She thought of how the dagger they had taken off her had slid across the skin of the soldier's neck in Harrenhal, how the blood had spluttered and rained on her as easily as rain. How the names spilled past her lips in endless prayer. What she gave to Jaqen to secure the freedom of her friends and herself.  _Let him underestimate me,_ a voice hissed in her mind, snarky and bitter,  _then I'll show him. I'll show all of them._

Though, there was a tiny part of her that was afraid of sleeping alone. What if someone were to sneak in through the night and try to slit her throat? Arya had no claws, no sword or dagger to defend herself with. No Nymeria at the end of her bed to growl at monsters or terrors hiding in the shadow of the night. Alone, with so much empty space that Arya had not known in so long. It would be like dropping off the edge of the abyss. The darkness scared her, yes, but so did what hid in it. The Mountain, Joffrey, Cersei, Ser Illyn Payne, all with their sharp smiles and dagger teeth. Arya was a wolf and wolves didn't fear the dark. But Arya was so used to the feel of her back pressed against another's, knowing there were eyes watching for safety while she slept. It was comforting, to know she wasn't alone.

"It's fine, I don't mind sharing a bed," Arya said nonchalantly, taking a sip out of her tankard at the same as Gendry took a gulp. "I've been sleeping with Gendry this entire time."

At her words, Gendry spluttered into his tankard, the drink catching in his throat before the cup slammed down on the table top, bringing his sleeve to wipe away the droplets that caught around his mouth. A bark of laughter left Tom as Gendry's cheeks turned red, Arya's eyes flickering to her friend, to the singer to a rather amused Harwin all the while the young Stark girl sat in confusion.

"No! No, she – we never – I  _didn't –_  " Gendry stammered, blushing like a young maid as Arya's eyebrows knitted together, before Gendry shot her a glare that was not filled with much anger. "We didn't  _do_  anything."

He had managed to cease his stammering and steady his voice but his cheeks held a pink hue that only seemed to grow as Tom continued to chortle, Harwin joining in with a slight chuckle. There was a frustration and annoyance in Arya; frustration because they were laughing but not telling her why, annoyance because she knew that they were laughing at  _her_. It made something in her boil and bubble, clenching her jaw as Tom's laughter only began to cease but a heat was growing on Arya's cheeks, dropping Gendry's gaze. Arya glared at her knees, annoyance growing and growing, eating at her stomach and grinding her bones to dust as -

_Oh._

The heat in her cheeks grew more, flames sputtering and licking at her skin, as the realisation that they were laughing at something  _dirty_ made her feel equally uncomfortable and embarrassed. Arya wasn't stupid, hadn't been treated like some innocent lady her entire life where the boys would only give her sweet words and songs like Sansa. She had heard Theon talk about visiting the brothel many times in Robb's ear, her brother snickering. Sometimes, when sneaking around in the corners of Winterfell with her arms full of baked goods and red, ripe apples, she would duck into small spaces to avoid being caught and how the guards would speak to one another.  _Sleep,_ some of them said.  _Fuck,_ the others laughed. Fuck, that had been Theon Greyjoy's favourite word. He had let it slip once in front of Arya, but never Sansa.

Arya's felt whatever wolfish courage in her shrivel up and die in the face of quiet embarrassment, her teeth found her worn down bottom lip as both Gendry and she looked away from one another, red in the face and trying to avoid the existence of the other at the risk of turning even warmer in the face and Tom laughing at them even more. Part of Arya wished she didn't have to feign innocence; sometimes ignorance was bliss.

"Oh, leave him alone, Tom," Harwin warned the singer though the smile along his lips suggested he wasn't half as serious as he wanted to sound. "Come along, Arya, I'll show you to the room."

Arya, fearless wolf Arya who had faced the Mountain, Tywin Lannister and Vargo Hoat, who had killed a man and sentenced others to death, whose list was only going to get smaller, who would not rest until Winterfell was avenged, took to her feet all too quickly to follow Harwin as he stumbled slightly on his feet, hand gripping Arya's shoulder to guide her up the stairs, the stale smell of sweat, horses and ale wafting from him. No more different than how she was not too long ago. Harwin had her tucked into his side, as if afraid she might run or fall victim to the darkness around them, the lack of golden candlelight making hard to see but Arya's eyes had long sing adjusted to the darkness. Floorboards creaked beneath her feet as they passed door after door, some holding snores and others remaining quiet.

Their room was no different to the one Arya had been in some time ago, save for being smaller and holding only a single bed that seemed far too large for her. There was only the light of the moon trickling in, spilling in waves across the lumpy looking mattress with the thread bare blanket and the barely there pillows; but to Arya, it reminded her nothing less of the finest featherbed she had slept in back in King's Landing. Her back and bones ached for softness, to be able to sleep without her body covered in dirt and grass, cold and shaking.

"I'll leave ye be," Harwin grunted, squeezing her shoulder as if to comfort her, though Arya knew not why. "Sharna will proper chew my ear out for having a lady share a room with men, but I know there's no changing your mind. You're as stubborn as they come."

Sometimes Arya forgot she had a life before all this had happened and that this man had known her, had seen her grow and help her get onto the saddle, would lead her around the courtyard and not berate her for not sitting side saddle. She was more than Arya Stark now, more than dresses and climbing trees in the godswood and wrestling with Bran in the mud. She was Needle and names and a water dancer, different pieces of clothes sewn together with crooked stitches that were threatening to fall apart at any given moment.

"Alright." That was all she could say lest her heart give out and words gush forward and Harwin look at her in disgust at all she had done and thought. There was a pregnant pause, words unsaid and at the tip of the tongue before Harwin left the room, closing the door behind him. For the first in what seemed like so many years, Arya was alone.

She stood in the silence, unsure of what to do, or what to think. She almost thought to howl to crack the emptiness around, like Nymeria used to at the moon but that would only result in the other men getting angry at her. Arya felt so small, as if the small room surrounding her was as large as the throne room in the Red Keep, and that the black abyss was going to swallow her up, break her bones and grind them to dust like how the Mountain's men used to do to the villagers as they screamed, begged for mercy, for their gods, for death. Her heart pounded in her throat as her mind screamed at her, for being a child and for being scared of the dark like she was five all over again.  _Fear cuts deeper than swords,_ Syrio had told her, wooden swords whacking against her shoulder and legs leaving kiss like bruises.

Her foot stepped forward and Arya tried not to make a monster out of everything. The real monsters had blonde hair and green eyes, were taller than trees and stronger than giants, held swords and titles and did not hide in the dark. Another foot towards the bed and Arya chastised herself for jumping at shadows. Rickon was only six and he showed more courage than her, playing in the crypts and amongst dead men. Reaching the bed, Arya almost jumped as the lumpy mattress dipped beneath her weight, forgetting that not every bed was made of dirt and grass. Tugging her brand-new boots off, Arya began to shed herself of the new clothes Sharna had given her; first the leather jerkin to be folded neatly just as her Septa had taught her how to do. Arya longed to be able to sweep her hair away from her face, back into one of those messy braids that Sansa had once taught her how to do before her sister realised Arya was too low of company for a pretty lady to keep. Her toes wriggled and Arya crawled up the large bed, like when she would have a nightmare and would sneak into her mother and father's chambers, before they said she was too old, and then into Jon Snow's who would tell her happy tales to banish the monsters and nightmares.

Arya pulled the blanket over herself and curled into a ball, high conscious of how much space there was and how small she was in the middle of the bed. The pillows were lumpy and hard against her cheek but Arya ignored the feel, closing her eyes to will herself to sleep.

_Joffrey, Cersei, Illyn Payne, the Hound, the Mountain, Meryn Trant, Polliver, the Tickler, Raff the Sweetling, Amory Lorch. Valar morghulis. Joffrey, Cersei, Illyn Payne, the Hound, the Mountain, Meryn Trant, Polliver, the Tickler. Raff the Sweetling, Amory Lorch..._

* * *

 

She was briefly awoken from her slumber, hands still knotted in prayer and eyes blurry as a hand touched her shoulder, the smell of ale wafting and filling her nose. Arya rolled over to the other side of the bed as Harwin undressed for bed. Arya listened briefly as he cursed while struggling to take off his boots before she pulled the blankets up to her again.

She dreamed of Winterfell and of Snow and of her wolf, running in the forest with her pack, wild and free. Arya saw Sansa and their mother and Robb and Bran and little Rickon with their red curls, crowned and kissed by fire. Arya could not see herself in them and felt as if a part of her soul had been torn from her.

Again, Arya was awoken, but there was no stench of ale or sweat to make her scrunch her nose and roll away. Her eyes opened reluctantly, peering out and adjusting the too bright intensity of the moonlight, the haze in her vision slinking away as the hand on her shoulder shook her from her sleep gently. Arya's eyes peered up, blinking and trying to focus, before she made out Gendry's face, half cast in light, half covered by darkness. He sat at the edge of the bed, her body rolled slightly towards him due to the dip, and it was his hand on her shoulder.

"Move over a bit," Gendry whispered softly to her and Arya let out a sleepy hum, complying as she shuffled back on the mattress, back towards Harwin and eyes dropping.

She couldn't remember being so comfortable, so warm in a bed as her bones were ready to melt into it at any given moment. Arya, curled up into a tight ball, stretched her limbs as well as she could as she shifted her cheek on the only other pillow on the bed, the other being occupied by Harwin's snoring head. Despite wanting to fall back into the arms of sleep, and into the dreams of her home and of her family, Arya kept her eyes open, watching with bleary eyes as Gendry took off his boots, then his jerkin. Arya wondered if this was what married men and women did, fall into bed, into each other’s arms with soft sighs and entangled limbs, with one another in comfortable silence and not caring to say anything. Arya didn't feel embarrassed to watch him and she wondered would he feel the same way if he knew she was staring. If he did feel her eyes on him, he didn't say anything, reaching behind to grab a fistful of his tunic before he paused his actions, as if a thought occurred. He dropped his arms and moved further onto the bed, pulling the blanket it over him. All that existed in the world for that moment was their synchronised breathing, in, out, in, out and the way his eyelashes fluttered while being caught in moonlight.

Arya curled herself up again, inching up the bed so that she and Gendry looked to be of equal height and her eyes blinked slowly, wanting to go to sleep but Arya wouldn't let them.

"Sorry I embarrassed you," Arya said, too tired, too shocked at the words that spilled from her mouth. Gendry, forgetting that he had awoken her, looked at her, eyes wide and surprised. They close enough that Arya could feel the warmth of his breath as it washed over her in gentle waves. "They didn't say anything to you, did they?"

Gendry didn't answer for a moment, probably still reeling from the shock that Arya had apologised to him for earlier before he gave a small cough to clear his throat. "No, no they didn't. I think... I think they're trying to act  _nice_ to me."

He said the word as if it were a foreign thing in his vocabulary. Not that Arya blamed her friend; she couldn't remember a time when a stranger hadn't attempted to hurt her, rape her or kill her. Or all in said order.  _Gendry was kind to me even when he didn't know me,_  that tiny voice whispered in her heart, at the memory of how he helped Arya fend off Hot Pie and Lommy Greenhands when they bullied her. How he knew she was a girl and didn’t say anything, not even to her. How he never told anyone she was Arya Stark even when she wasn’t. After all this time, as Arya saw the bad and the evil in men, watching as their humanity was set aside for swords and war, she had never thought to look over her shoulder to see that there were good men left in this world. Stubborn, bull headed Gendry who protected her just as much as she protected him.

It took a moment for Arya to respond to Gendry, caught in the threads of her own thoughts as once again she could not look away from him; he lay on his back, hands folded atop of his chest, the moonlight spilling through his long curls that fell around the pillow, the image of a crown. It was hard remembering he wasn’t that much older than her, hard remembering that, just like her, he was only so young and already he had been forced to witness such atrocities by monsters in the shape of lions wearing armour. He didn’t deserve it, any of it.

“You’re still coming with me to Riverrun, aren’t you?” Arya hated how desperate she sounded, like a little child all over again. Like Sansa begging Father to stay in King’s Landing because she  _loved_ Joffrey  _so_ much. Arya hands were placed on the pillow, the pillow she and Gendry shared because Harwin had stolen the other, just in front of her in an effort to stop herself from doing something foolish like reaching across and grabbing his hand. Now, Gendry looked at her, turning his head and casting his face in shadow, away from the moonlight but still, his eyes were brighter than a summer blue sky that had stolen her breath.

“Of course, I am. They wouldn’t be able to stop be,” he said, voice low and rather serious but there was a softness in his words and his eyes that caused a stutter, a dysfunction, in her chest and a knotting in her tummy. Not the bad kind, not like when Sansa would step out in her pretty dresses and pretty face with all eyes on her, approving and kind. It didn’t make her feel small and ugly and unwanted, because she was his friend and friends didn’t do that to one another.

“You could make swords for my brother Robb,” Arya whispered, a smile she hoped he couldn’t see forming on her lips. Her smile was never as pretty as Sansa’s. “I could train you how to swing a sword there and you could show me how to make one.”

At that, Gendry laughed, quietly and smothered by trying to mash his mouth together. “You? Make a sword?”

They were facing each other; Arya on her side, curled into a ball and him, lying on his back but turning his neck. Sharing the same space, same pillow, same blanket, same bed, but not quite brave enough to close that space that was like a chasm between them. They had no problems when there was no one around, when it was cold and scary to sleep in a forest where anyone could have found them, but here, safe and warm and sharing a bed (men and women were only supposed to share a bed if they were married) it seemed much more frightening. It wouldn’t wrong, something within Arya whispered; it wasn’t like they were alone and it wasn’t like they were doing anything wrong. Still, her knees stayed pressed up close to her so as to not touch any part of Gendry.

“My mother says I have blacksmith hands,” Arya shot back, remembering how her mother tutted and made a  _tsk_ sound through pursed lips. “See?”

Arya turned slightly onto her back, dragging some of the blanket up with her as they caught on her bent knees, and she rested on the curve of her shoulder blades, holding both of her hands upwards, palms facing forwards, to show Gendry the rough, now golden parchment adorned with calloused skin and tiny scared. The moonlight caught on the dents where she had picked at scabs long ago, casting shadows and pits. She stared at them for a moment, looking at the pinprick reminders at the pads of her fingers where the needle of her youth locked in a room with other girls had stabbed her again and again, reminding her how useless she was. Gendry stared, too, probably wondering how such tough and calloused hands belonged to a lady but then he let another breathy chuckle, like wind sighing over waves.

She barely had time to regain her composure after that before he unlaced a hand and reached up, as if he were reaching for a star in the sky, and grasped one of Arya’s hands in one and then, the other hand still laying on his chest reached up to take hold of her other hand. His hands were warm, palms cradling the back of her hands and his thumb curled inwards, running across all the bumps and white, raised scars on the inside of her hand to uncurling her fingers, feeling the dips of where the sewing needle had tortured her. Her heart was beating madly against her ribs, threatening to shatter the bone as she watched him do so, his body leaned at an angle so that his head was closer, foreheads nearly touching but not. Her hands looked so small cupped in his, the blood running down her arms and an ache beginning to burn from being held up but all Arya could feel was his hands holding hers and the heat in her cheeks and how he had stolen all the breath in her lungs.

She didn’t know what to say, what to do, her mind blank and filled with air, like how she used to think of Sansa when her sister talked to Jeyne Poole in whispers about songs and boys. Maybe Gendry knew of how he managed to break her apart and shatter her, that it was all some cruel joke and he would pull away and laugh and call her Arya Horseface. But he held her hands softly, both thumbs leaving burning trails beneath her skin before his fingers curled, her own having no choice but to follow the action as he gave a small scoff, one that wasn’t cold and cruel.

“These delicate things? I wouldn’t trust you with turning pages without getting cut, let alone wielding a hammer,” Gendry teased and Arya pulled one of her hands free to hit his arm, weakly and not filled with fire. Their hands dropped, falling between with the blanket caving and cradling their linked hands, his fingers curving over the top of hers; neither letting go while waiting for the other to pull away. It was purgatory, waiting for it to happen but not acting to make it happen.

“Could you make me a sword then?” She thought of Needle and they day Jon Snow gave it to her. Arya shifted slightly, placing her cheek back against the rough surface of pillowcase, stretching her legs down the bed.

“A sword? What kind?” he asked. Not  _why would a lady like you want a sword?_

“I lost my own sword when we were captured by the Mountain’s men,” Arya admitted, thinking of the man who had threatening to rape her. She never knew what happened to him. Maybe she would find her sword one day and kill him with it. “It’s small, slender. It’s made in the style the Braavosi use. Do you know it?”

Gendry scrunched his nose up slightly, crinkles appearing in the otherwise smooth tanned skin. “Them types of swords are hardly useful for swingin’ but… Master Mott taught me lots of types and styles of swords. I could make it, but it wouldn’t be exactly like your old one.”

“If you know so much about blacksmithing, how come he let you go?” Arya inquired, afraid to move lest he draw attention to their hands that lay between them, the warmth running up her arms, in her blood and soothing the aching bones. Gendry’s face dropped, thoughtful yet uncaring.

“Don’t know. All I know he wanted me gone. Blacksmithing is all I’ve been good at, all I’ve done, all that I know,” Gendry admitted, voice rather far away as if he was caught beneath the waves of another dream, of another memory. “Even when the other kids were playing, I stayed in the armoury. I could hit harder than any of them but they always tried to pick on me. Thought that I was just some stupid bastard boy who hit things all day.”

“You’re not,” Arya protested, voice soft yet strong, but guilt was eating away at her. She had thought those things, at first and whenever she was angry. As if her anger entitled her to think such things about him. Arya had known what it felt like, to be laughed at, to be called names. To be torn apart by words and laughter ringing like bells in her mind.  _You’re just Arya Horseface, too ugly to marry anyone but Hodor who’s equally stupid and equally ugly._ The old ache burned into her heart and the hand clasped in Gendry’s tightened.

“They shut up when the things I hit were them,” he smirked, as if remembering it. “They always left me alone after that. When Master Mott told me he wanted me to take the black, I did what was I told. I didn’t want to but he pushed me out the doors I’ve been working behind for so many years. I didn’t know where to go, what to do.” Now a frown was forming on his face, eyebrows furrowing beneath the fringe of curls cascading down his forehead. “I don’t know much else besides hitting steel, it’s all I am.”

“No, it’s not,” Arya whispered, her voice torn at the edges. “You’re more than that. You’re Gendry and you’re my friend. You can be more than hitting steel. I could teach you; I could teach you how to be a water dancer. You could learn and become more than a blacksmith’s apprentice, it doesn’t have to define you.”

A pause, breaths held as Harwin snored and, with an exhale, Gendry let a small smile grace his lips and he looked at her, blue eyes shining bright through the darkness. Her own summer sky, a promise of a better time, when all else sought to drown her in blood and war and death.

“I’d like that. I’ve always wanted to be more. When I was younger, I wanted to be like the knights that would into the armoury all the time.” Though wistful, there was a bitterness beneath there, old hurts seeping through. “But they were all sons of rich fat lords who dressed in pretty armour without ever having to worry about dirtying it. Their swords were more for decoration than protecting or using.”

Arya remembered how she and Bran used to run around, pretending to be famous knights, from Aemon the Dragonknight to Ser Duncan the Tall and Ryam Redwyne. Their sticks were the finest Valyrian steel swords and they were battling for the good of the kingdom; it had all been fun, child’s play, until one day, Arya claimed Ser Arya Stark, the most fearsome knight in all the realm; how Bran had laughed at her and said girls could never be knights. She could never be a knight, girls weren’t allowed to wear armour and swing swords and for that Arya was bitter. The more she was denied, the more Arya wanted it.

“You’d make a good knight,” Arya said, causing Gendry to turn his focus to her again. “You would. There aren’t any good knights, they’re all just as you said: sons of rich lords who like showing off their money.”

Arya remembered being so excited before the tournament in King’s Landing, bouncing in her seat waiting in anticipation for all the knights and lords to appear. The disappointment she felt inflated as her excitement dropped, seeing how none of the knights were at all like she had envision; they were no Aemon Targaryen, green boys who liked the sword for its jewels. She had berated herself, telling herself that it didn’t matter, that the legends she had been taught were dead and that the world had no use of such men anymore. She was a lady and not meant to have an opinion on such things.

Still, seeing the smile on Gendry’s lips made her feel better.

“I would?” he asked, amused yet wanting to believe it. “Ser Gendry. Sounds weird.”

 _Ser Arya_ , she had called herself once and Bran had laughed at her for it. “I don’t think it does.”

For the briefest of moments, they let themselves fall into Gendry’s dream, of him wearing the armour instead of making it. Of protecting those who couldn’t from evil, be it cruel lords or monsters. He would have been able to knock Loras Tyrell from his horse and crack the pretty armour he wore. Gendry was strong, taller and still growing; he would have been able to beat most of the men that day of the tournament, or maybe that’s what Arya wanted to believe.  _He could_ , she thought,  _if he was taught. I could teach him to swing a sword and he could make me my own Needle again._

Then Gendry gave another breathy chuckle, pulling the two of them from the day dream. “Doesn’t matter anyway. It’s just a stupid dream a stupid kid dreamed up like all other kids.”

“It isn’t stupid,” Arya reaffirmed, finally gathering the courage to unfurl her fingers beneath his and lace their hands together, her small hand squeezing his larger one. “It could happen, you never know.”

She thought of Gregor Clegane and how he was a knight, how that monster was supposed to protect the weak and the poor and the innocent but instead he tortured, raped and murdered them.

“I do know,” Gendry stated and he was staring at the ceiling now, at the panels of wood with a glare but not pulling away from Arya, not pulling his hand away from hers. She was never good at this; all her friends had been play mates, simply for chasing around in the courtyard. Sansa was always the one who wanted long talks, wanted to spill her every thought and feeling to Jeyne Poole. It made Arya feel bare and vulnerable but she didn’t want to pull away. Trying wouldn’t too bad.

“You would deserve it more than any of them because you’re a good person and not at all like those monsters.” He knew who she was talking about because his lips pressed into a thin line and his jaw clenched and Arya felt his hand tighten around hers. Always the nightmares haunted them. Yet, he did not speak, still glaring at the ceiling and then, like a candle blowing out, the anger fell from his face and his hand became loose in hers. She worried, panicked she had said the wrong thing.

“Thank you,” he rasped, no longer glaring upwards but turning towards her, eyes catching hers. “Thank you, Arya.”

She didn’t know what to say, caught like a deer in his eyes, mouth shut and tongue stuck to her roof. That quickened heartbeat and warm cheeks, Arya tried to find the words that were a jumbled mess stuck in her throat. Maybe Sansa would have known what to say. But Arya isn’t Sansa, isn’t pretty with beautiful hair, isn’t gentle and soft and made for silk dresses. Arya is lost within herself, in Gendry’s eyes and his hand holding hers is tying her down, stopping her from disappearing into the many names she had covered herself with. All she can do is give a small smile and a nod, hoping he understands.

“We should go to sleep while we can,” Arya advises, hoping he isn’t thinking it’s because she doesn’t care. “Who knows when they’ll wake us up?” Arya could tell it was late for the inn was quiet for the most part, save for the sounds of snoring and hushed voices, including theirs. There’s a yawn threatening to break through but Arya clamps her jaw shut, her eyes blinking blearily.

“Alright. It’d be nice to sleep without wondering if someone will kill me in my sleep,” Gendry agreed. He shifted in the bed, pulling the blanket back over him with his free hand but not pulling away from Arya’s hand. Their shared pillow was lumpy and unkind to the head but Arya didn’t care, pulling her knees up and trying to seem as small as possible, curling up on her side with an ache forming due to the the strange angle her arm from holding Gendry’s hand but it was something that could be easily ignored. Arya sank further beneath the blanket, trying to warm her cold feet as her eyes began to droop, the remnants of her previous sleep returning.  

The space between them was filled with silence and Arya’s eyes did not fall, not just yet, as her eyes fluttered and Gendry’s breathing being the only sound she cared to hear. They stay there, a moment filled with uncertainty. It had been different in the forest, they wouldn’t have to fear the judgemental stares and whispers of people. But now, it was… different. Still, Arya found herself edging forward on the pillow, Gendry shifting and moving their hands so it wasn’t as an uncomfortable position anymore. The small things they could revel in, the small beautiful moments in life.

“Good night, Gendry.”

“Good night, Arya.”

And, together, they fell into the embrace of sleep without any worry or fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was going to go up friday but i had to work. and then i meant to upload saturday but then marvel defender's was released. Sunday was going to be the day but I got lazy. then i was sure monday was going to be the day of upload but i had to attend a course for my job. so here i am, tuesday, at quarter to midnight, finally uploading.
> 
> also, just a bit of a heads up, I'm starting school next monday so updates WILL become more irregular with even longer intervals. 
> 
> i swear the next chapter will be the last chapter of this sequence and then we're moving on. I had to split this chapter in two again because i write too much to the point this fic is feeling bloated. 
> 
> thank you all for the comments and kind words! they mean a lot to a very tired and drained writer! they mean so much to me!


	21. Full Of Terrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amidst the war ravaging the land of Westeros, a lone Stark must find her way home, to her true family.
> 
> And yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I do not own any of the characters, places or story lines (unless stated otherwise) mentioned in the work; they all belong to their owner: G.R.R Martin  
> \- Mostly original dialogue.  
> \- A work of fiction previously known as "The Bull and the Wolf."  
> \- comments are very much appreciated!  
> \- for any more information, check out my profile!
> 
> [warning: this chapter contains graphic depictions of rape and other NSFW themes]

**_Chapter Twenty-One._ **

Arya was dreaming again.

She could tell because of how her braids fell in disarray around her, wisps breaking loose and catching on the breeze, waves rushing over one another and she could smell snow, ash and sea. She was caught in a snow storm, but the cold no longer could tie her down, could no longer burn its way into her skin and settle in the cracks on her heart and bones. In her mouth, cotton and tongue knotted as she dreamed.

Before, she used to dream of simple things, of strange things; her horse running over the ocean as the sun glared above her, but its rays gentle and kind to her Northern pale skin. Wearing a dress made from colourful lizards, from blue to green, and how they tickled her skin with their pink tongues.  Living in a tower in the clouds, able to reach out her window and grasp a shining star in her fist.

But Arya wasn’t a child anymore. She didn’t dream of silk and smiles and sweet lemon cakes. Not anymore.

Ghosts haunted her, reflections of her eyes, all watching and waiting; judge, jury and _Illyn Payne heaving Ice behind his shoulder as the steel swings down and –_

The only time Bran made her cry was when she had finally turned ten, cheeks pink from the summer snow catching itself in her braids and eyelashes. He was becoming taller, nearly reaching the height of her eyes, and his red hair shone like fire beneath the covered light of the sun. He was in the courtyard with a wooden sword clutched in his hand and trying, trying so much he puffed and spluttered, as he kept attempted to swing the sword the way he wanted to. _It isn’t that hard,_ Arya piped, more than used to watching the men and her brothers swing a sword around the courtyard. She learned. She always did. And Arya tried to show him, show him that her was holding the sword wrong in his soft hands (her own were sore from being stabbed again, again, again from the Needle and being curled into fists to stop them flying into Jeyne Poole and Sansa’s faces) and the red in his cheeks turned darker. _Shut up! You’re just a stupid girl! I’m the one who knows how to hold a sword, not you! Go back to your stupid needle!_

Arya didn’t talk to him for a week despite him trying to apologise and she was every bit the Northern lady, cold and ice, turning her nose up at him and refusing to glance his way. She became a loose, wet and pink mess as she cried into her pillow at night when the moon died. _Wolves are meant to howl at night, not cry like children._

Arya looked to the sky but there was no moon, waxing and waning in the ink sky that was dripping and covering her in darkness, down her throat and choking her all the while the stars and their friendly shining winks were cowering in fear of being swallowed up.

The world was an ocean and she, drowning beneath its waves as all those around her were safely stowed away on their ships or trying to keep their heads above the rage of the Drowned god. _What is dead may never die,_ and she was dying. Lungs, thoughts, screaming at Arya to move her legs and arms, just like she was taught to do when she was little. Her dress was weighing down, heavier than a crown of gold and bubbles flew in silence around her.

She had seen the sea once, calm and blue like sapphires, at White Harbour. Sansa’s eyes were the same colour and she seemed to flourish, as if the cold of the North prevented her from ever reaching her from becoming the beauty she was destined to be.

Once, there had been the baker’s son, a name lost to wind and wisps and she could barely remember his face (brown eyes or blue? Brown hair, or blonde?). He had made her stomach tie itself into knots and he had been many years older than her but he still gave her a smile that was no different than the ones he gave Sansa. He had a dimple, right _there,_ in his left cheek and he always smelt of bread. Now, reflecting and lost in her sea of thoughts and discarded dreams, Arya lamented on the boy, a boy she never knew and who would only indulge her in talk because she was _m’lady_ and he had laughed with her – not _at._ It had been fleeting, passing, only a stepping stone for her to walk over after Jeyne Poole laughed at her and whispered in the baker’s son’s ear and he laughed too and Arya didn’t like the taste of bread for five months, two weeks and three days after that.

She was dreaming of Winterfell, not as it was when she and Sansa and Father left for King’s Landing, but how she felt it to be; the grey stones not mist and broken, curling smoke of a ruin that had fallen into disrepair in her mind and heart. Home was her father’s smile, Jon’s hugs, Bran sneaking off with her to the kitchen and her mother’s scent. It was the way Robb used to tell ghost stories in the crypts and when Theon would tell her a joke not meant for the ears of a lady. It had even been Sansa and when she used to braid Arya’s hair. Rickon and his stash of strange pebbles and bugs and butterflies in jars that he would release a day later after constant watching and studying.

Sewing, needle in, under and up again and repeat, stitch after stitch and Sansa is beside her, humming a song beneath her breath. She’s older and tired and there’s a yellow flower on her cheek, petals withering.

“Why did you leave me behind?” Sansa asked, so soft and sweet and still stitching, humming a song Arya didn’t know as she slipped the needle in, under and up again. Arya could barely keep focused, couldn’t turn her head that was too heavy and tunnelled so she only saw her work. Her stitches were never so straight back home, never so clean and taking form.

She wanted to scream, shout at her sister that she didn’t mean to, that she didn’t want to, but nothing came out and the humming stopped. _I’m sorry, Sansa, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, sorry, sorry._

“You left me behind. Like you left father and Jon and Mother and everyone else.” No longer sweet, no longer soft. The needle was gripped in Sansa’s lily-white hand, soft and untouched, and she was gripping it as if it were Ice, heavy and burdened with blood. _No, I didn’t want to._ “You’ve forgotten us, left us for some _bastard_. We’re your _true_ family. _And you left us to die_.”

Still, Arya’s hand moved the needle in, under and up again and the tears were running down her passive face. She didn’t even see the Needle in Sansa’s hand dig into the hole where her heart should be and she crumpled into wind and ash and dust, nothing for the crows to eat.

_Fear cuts deeper than swords, fear cuts deeper than swords, fear cuts deeper than swords._

She dreamed of Jon, all black and snow, a mirror of her own grey eyes gazing at her, fondly and sadly. He was a ghost of a memory, not how he really was. But he was more flesh and blood than she ever would be and her arms ached to reach out and hug him, to have him hold her like he used to when they were younger, when they were home in Winterfell; her heart ached and she wanted to cry again, wanted to wrap herself up in her big brother away from the monsters that chased her through the night, nipping at her bloodied heels.

But she wasn’t a child anymore; no longer nine and needing her big brother to check beneath the bed for the monsters, all made of smoke and fangs and red eyes. Monsters had blonde hair and green eyes. Jon was smiling, not as he used to – he was sad, like how Father used to be sometimes, when she would crawl into his lap and he would gaze at her, saying how she reminded him so much of Aunt Lyanna.

She dreamt she was her aunt, locked in a dungeon, clawing at the wall with her finger tips bloodied and blunt, guts gripping and knotting around each other in the dark. Far away, the sound of Rhaegar Targaryen laughing at his captive’s pain and tears.

Arya was tired, scared, broken and beaten and held up by a thread as thin as Needle. _I am a wolf, I am stronger than their fists and swords and words._ She had survived this far, had she not? What was one more step? One more breath? What was one more sunrise, sunset, and falling into a bed that wasn’t a bed to return to a home that wasn’t really a home – not anymore, at least.

Home.

Home was Jon Snow’s smile, him sneaking her snacks and letting her sip from his cup, the taste of spiced wine on her tongue. Home was Father and his smiles and how he used to thank her for the weeds she pulled up. Home was Robb and his jokes and how Theon used to laugh, wanting to show Robb how archery was _really_ done. Home was Bran and how they used to wrestle and climb and sneak biscuits from the kitchen and run when they were caught, laughter and crumbs spilling. Home was Rickon begging to be shown how to hold a sword and in turn, showing Arya bugs and worms and a way to sneak past Septa Mordane when Arya didn’t want to sit in a stuffy room for hours on end, sewing and stitching. Home had been when she would hear Sansa humming, back when they shared a room and her mother planting a kiss to her forehead, smelling of cinnamon.

There was no home, not for Arya. It could never be a home. Home was her family and they were gone. She had to be her own family.

But that wasn’t right, couldn’t be right, because she did have a family; in the way she would fall asleep, warm at night, in the way the hunger didn’t hurt because he insisted she eat that slice of bread over him, in the way the gentle rhythm of his chest rising, down, up, down and a pause before the sleepy sigh leaving past his lips. How a touch of a hand or a linking of gazes felt so much more when asking _are you okay?_ A laughable question, because who would be? After all that happened? To her, to the people around her? And then that laughter stopped because the bitterness ebbed away and she felt like crying all over again because _it_ _wasn’t fair._ They were good people, were they not? In the stories, good things only ever happened to good people and all the ladies had happy endings with their loves, so why did they only meet death and blood and so much darkness in every corner that they turned?

Gendry smelt of rain, soot, sweat and pine needles. She probably smelt of blood and death and decay. There was so much blood on her hands, it was dripping from her finger tips, but he didn’t seem to care and she wanted to stop it from staining him. _He doesn’t care,_ a sigh past her ears as she felt a warmth encase her cold bones. Arya couldn’t remember the last time she had been hugged. Maybe it had been her father, _before he –_ or maybe it had been Jon, smelling of soap and snow catching on his eyelashes. And how Arya wanted to fall.

She no longer cared about the blood on her hands as they found their ways around him and she pressed her cheek against his chest, the thump of Gendry’s heart soothing the war of her soul and his lips were against the top of her head, breath warm against her scalp. Her hand moved along his back, tracing constellations in soft movements of her fingers and he sighed, pulling her tighter and close and Arya had those words on her tongue, almost ready to slip. But her hands simply continued to move, up, down, around and around and around.

Comfortable. Like when she was younger and would burst in on her mother and father and, before she would wedge herself between them, they would be wrapped in each other, her mother lying against her father’s chest and him holding her in his arms. Sometimes, she would awake to his arm thrown over her and her legs knotted with his. He would be so close and that small part in Arya, a part she had never known to exist, whispered its hope that he knew what he was doing, knew that he was holding her and _wanted_ to do it. He was a man of few words and few actions but she wondered that maybe, beneath all that, she would be able to tell if, maybe, _just maybe,_ he did…

There was that flutter in her chest again, an echo, and it made long forgotten nerves rise again, and a sigh was building up; Arya could not remember the last time she had been held, had felt safe and warm in another’s arms without the fear of being hit or beaten. She could breathe again, could find the time to calm her thoughts and the rage that was breaking her bones in her. She found strength in herself through the promise of safety and kindness.

Arya had seen her parents kiss more than once, placing a peck against each other’s lips and cheeks in a chaste fashion that used to make her nose scrunch up. Jon used to kiss the scrapes on her knees and cheeks when she fell, tearing her then fragile skin. Sansa used to talk about kissing knights and lords and _Joffrey_ to Jeyne Poole and Arya didn’t understand what was so special about kissing. She had kissed Jaqen, all those years ago in Harrenhal under the eyes of the gods and with a promise. It had meant nothing, a strange action she had given in exchange for freedom. Ladies weren’t meant to be kissing boys that weren’t their husbands, it was _wrong_ to do so. But Arya had and it didn’t feel like she had committed a sin, had committed a sacrilegious action against the gods. She had thought, dreamt, of kissing Gendry more than once.

All that talk of what a Lady should and shouldn’t do, should and shouldn’t like, was gone, words made of wind and she was in a storm and her hands were winding their way up and his hands were on her cheeks now, warm and burning, soothing the cold ache in her. Her hands found Gendry’s hair, knotting in the soft strands of long curls that fell in disarray around his head, the light catching purple and black and crowning him in silver. He was tall and would continue to grow and Arya felt small, rolling onto the balls of the feet as he ducked his head and –

Gendry’s lips were softer than she had expected, his beard scratching at her gentle skin but not in an unpleasant way. It was chaste, lips pressed against one another like how her mother and father used to steal kisses and it made a warmth run through Arya’s body, banishing all traces of winter and ice. His curls tickled her cheeks and it would have made her giggled, but Arya was too far gone to do so. Gendry’s hands cupped her cheeks, as if she were some fragile thing made of parchment and air, ready to collapse or blow away; she held on to him as if he were mist and fog, ready to vanish from her sight and never to be seen again. It felt like one of Sansa’s songs, the ones Arya used to hate so much. Maybe Sansa had liked them so much because the world in songs and stories were so much better, kinder, to young girls than the harsh, cruel hit of the one they lingered in.

Their lips parted and a wave of air rushed in to Arya’s lungs, which had begun to ache unbeknownst to her. But she was lost now, and, like a drowning man at sea pushing his head up from the surface of the water, Gendry pulled Arya up and met her lips.

Their lips crashed against one another, nothing soft and gentle, a force to be reckoned with and his hands began to find themselves moving from her cheeks to the back of her neck, her own trying to grip his strands in order not to give in to her buckling knees. Their mouths moved with one another, a rhythm she was learning and a pace she was teaching, trying to remember she needed to breathe. His beard was scratching at her skin, leaving it red and somewhat raw but Arya didn’t care so long as his mouth never strayed from hers ever again. Her hands moved from his air so she could wrap her arms around him, trying to ignore her shaky breath and her weak knees. She could taste Gendry, taste the ale on his tongue that had seemed so bitter before but now she couldn’t get enough, she was becoming intoxicated by the taste of him, the feel of him, the smell of him. A hand wrapped around her waist and pulled her closer to him, flush against one another and it drew a moan from her mouth, nearly shocking her. The was something pooling in her stomach, lower and foreign, and she was sure her panting breaths were not from a lack of air.

Her mouth felt bruised but Arya had suffered worse; their tongues moved around each other, in such a wickedly delicious way and Arya tried pulling closer but there was no more room left; their clothes stopped them from more. The taste of his tongue against hers, his arms wrapped around her and his body flush up against Arya’s made her feel as if she was drowning in flames, that she was going to be consumed by the fire that was burning her skin but she couldn’t find it within her to really care. All that mattered was that their mouths would not be forced apart.

Arya tried to let their kissing be enough but it was because she wanted to touch his skin, feel him beneath her palms and to banish that ache between her legs. Gendry’s hands were faster than hers, moving to the back of her dress and tearing at the cloth, not caring for the laces that bound her like shackles and the cold air was cruel, making her shiver briefly before his hands placed themselves against the smooth, soft canvas of her back, making Arya’s breathing hitch in her throat and that ache burning brighter and fiercer. She wanted Gendry to want to touch her, wanted Gendry to want to run his hands along her back and arms, across her stomach and chest, _between her legs,_ places that she had never been touched. But, most importantly, Arya wanted to touch _him_.

Arya tugged at Gendry tunic, never once breaking away from his lips to breathe and feel the cold air on her bruised mouth, cursing whomever had created the useless piece of fabric before she managed to scrunch it up in her palms trying to tug the damned thing away from him. He pulled his hands away, making Arya whimper at the loss of his touch, but then he reached behind him, grasping a handful of the material to pull it over his head, their lips breaking apart and Arya sucked in a wave of air, eyes glazed and lips red. His hair, already in chaos from her hands, was a knotted mess but she thought he had never looked more beautiful. Gendry discarded the tunic, not caring for it as she stared at him, _him_ ¸ without being covered by clothes and all for her to see. The muscles on his chest, the fine hair than ran below the belt of his breeches. She had seen him like this before, had touched him before, but it was different now. Arya’s hands shook as she ran her palms and fingers over him, running the hair on his chest and stomach between her fingers and up to his broad shoulders, before back down again, to just above where his breeches hung and her fingertips traced themselves up and down, back and forth as it drew a moan from him. The ache between her legs was hurting and she tried crossing her legs over one another to soothe it.

Arya thought she looked a mess; hair in knots, lips red and bruised, eyes shining and glazed with her dress threatening to fall from her shoulders. Her finger tips continued their patterns as Gendry pulled her lips to his again, tongues wrapping and darting back and forth as he gripped her dress and, without a moment’s hesitation, tore it from her, freeing her chest and her arms pulling themselves from the sleeves. She was partially naked in front of him but Arya didn’t care, not anymore, and she pushed the remains of her dress down her hips, letting it pool around her feet as she stood, naked as her Name Day. Gendry’s hands wandered; running down her spine to moving up her shoulders, leaving burning trails behind him. Then, stopping above her chest before he cupped her breast, making a moan spill past Arya’s lips. Arya no longer cared or felt ashamed, it wasn’t within her anymore and she was being reduced to a pink, warm puddle as his other hand did the same, thumb flicking over the nub and making her gasp into his mouth. She was holding onto Gendry, nails running along his back as her thighs became slick; Arya arched her back, letting her soft, pale skin pool into his palms as he kneaded her breasts, soliciting more moans and other foreign sounds from Arya. She felt as if she were powerless, his hands managing to draw these sounds and aches from her that she had never felt and she wanted to do the same to him. She thought of Theon and how he crudely he spoke to Robb about trips to the brothel when he thought no one was listening. Those stories had been strange and made no sense to her. Until now.

Arya’s hand dropped again, running along the fine hair, before she stooped further, over his breeches and wishing that they weren’t there. Arya was nervous, unsure and new as she put her hands between his legs and felt _it_ there, hard and along his thigh and it made her gasp and blush like a maid before her hand ran over it through the material, finally making Gendry moan as he had made her and it made her grin. She did it again, using her palm, and he halted in his actions and he pulled away from her lips to rest his forehead against her own, eyes hooded and dark. It did not deter her from stroking him through his pants, never breaking eye contact as she maintained the slow steady pace.

Then, he stopped her and was pushing her down – onto the ground, onto a bed, Arya didn’t know and didn’t care so long as it was him and her and only ever them. She lay on her back and Gendry lay between her legs, the cold air rushing over the wetness between her thighs and he was kissing her again, softer than last time and her hands were around his neck as he traced over her stomach, across her hips and then over her thighs, making her moan again. Arya could only feel what he was doing, her eyes closed, and his hands stopped at her stomach before going lower and lower to where that ache was and she couldn’t even contain the gasp that tore through her when he touched her _there._ Her hips bucked and she groaned again, Gendry’s lips drinking up every sound she made as he ran his fingers up and down her womanhood, breath quickening and chest rising and falling as he did so. Gendry ran a finger up and touched something, something that made her tear away from his lips and throw her head back, gasping for more and her repeated the action, making her slicker as he ran circles over that bundle of nerves.

Arya’s knees shook and if the grip she had on his hair was hurting, he didn’t say anything. He circled around her, making her bite her lip and there was something growing in her stomach, making Arya’s breathing quicken and her toes curl. Arya didn’t want him to stop, wanted whatever was coming to crash over her as sounds spilled from her mouth. Gendry kept that same, brutal slow pace and it made her frustration rise as did the pleasure, her eyes staring up ahead but not being able to see anything. She was becoming undone, a loose mess and the knot was becoming tighter and tighter and she pulled him up to kiss him just as she came.

It washed over her, a wave that was nothing like she had ever felt before and Arya squeezed her eyes shut, galaxies dying and bursting in the darkness with his lips against her and she was naught but a melted puddle, shuddering and gasping and trying to learn how to breathe again. His hand stayed between her legs, making her tremble; still, despite all that, Arya wanted more. She reached down and pulled at the laces of Gendry’s breeches, fingers unsure and weak but working, not even knowing what she was doing until his hands replaced hers, one still wet from where they had been and Arya felt giddy, nervous too, as she looked down to see him. Finally, the laces were unknotted from one another and Gendry pushed the breeches down his hips and she saw; it made her heart leap in her throat at the sight of him, completely naked like her and she stared, that ache returning all too soon. Arya had seen her brothers naked before but it was nothing like this, nothing like now. Her hand reached between them and her lip captured itself between her teeth, before her fingers wrapped around him and Gendry hissed, bending down to bury his face into the crook of her neck. A smile was on her lips and she stroked him, like he had stroked her, and marvelled at the feel of him in her hand, not at all like she thought it would feel like. It was smooth, velvety, as her hand moved up and down, feeling him shake and tremble, hips beginning to move with her hand. Gendry was fucking himself into Arya’s hand, and she watched as he did so, peering at the action; he was leaking at the tip, like tears, and her thumb ran over it and Gendry cried out at that, the sound muffled. Her pace was slow, torturing and she placed her free hand against his cheek, making him turn to look in her eyes and she kissed him before the hand against his cheek moved down to his hip and she pushed down slightly, trying to show what she wanted.

Arya felt him, there, and Gendry paused a moment, hands rushing over her body again as her own wrapped around his neck and he kissed her again, a soft chaste peck, before she pushed her legs further apart and he slid into her. There was no pain, not as she was taught and she moaned into their kiss, just as he did the same. It was a full feeling and Arya didn’t understand what it was exactly that made what they were doing a sin. It was another moment before he began to move into her, Arya trying to match the rhythm. He was glistening in the pale, silvery light and it made him glow, an entirely different being as he thrust into Arya, their sweaty and sticky foreheads placed against one another as they moved together. Her arms were around him but they were loose and didn’t have enough strength, his own holding his weight above her while a hand cushioned the back of her head. That knotting feeling was growing again and Arya couldn’t hold back the sounds spilling past her lips, caught up in the feel of him inside her. Gendry’s hand ran over her hip, down her leg and caught itself in the crook of her knee and then pulled it up; the position allowed him to go deeper and he brushed against a spot within Arya, a spot that made her throw her head back and close her eyes and see all the stars in the world. That wave was going to crash over her at any minute, Arya knew that and dropped her gaze down to peer at where their bodies met and –

_Blood._

The sticky redness was everywhere, pouring from her and it was on her body, staining her breasts and stomach. The pleasure she felt before was turning to pain and the sounds leaving her were no long soft moans, but shouts, begging to stop as her hands tried to push the body away. The hands holding her were no longer soft, moving to pin her down and stop her flailing; something wrapped around her throat and her breathing began to halt, trying to see through the pain and fear and blurriness. The eyes she saw were not the blue she loved and the face was one she knew; the Mountain was atop of her, ugly face twisted and his hand choking her, raping her, and she was screaming, just as Elia Martell had.

His hands were red, bloodied from dashing the child’s brains across the marble floor and Rhaenys was screaming, begging for Mama to _stop it all_ as Aegon remained a bloody mess, as the lions dragged her away, but she couldn’t do anything. It was getting harder to breathe and there were tears down her face and the Mountain was choking the life out of her.

_Rhaegar had left her, had left the children._

All her life she had done what she was told and all that had been a stepping stone to her death. Her hands tried to claw at the Mountain’s eyes, tried to at least leave him a scar so everyone would know that it was Elia Martell who had wounded Ser Gregor Clegane and he was to bear that mark for the rest of his life. But she couldn’t reach and he was gripping her head and squeezing as he pushed himself again and again into her and there was so much pain and she was screaming _not the children! Not the children! Where is Rhaegar?! Where is Rhaegar?!_

The Mountain was yelling at her to shut up and he was squeezing her head and how she wished she could see Dorne and her family one last time before he added more pressure and with a scream, her head burst .

* * *

 

Arya’s eyes peeled open and she stared at the ceiling, the darkness all too familiar and frightening before she bolted from where she lay, sweating and there was a dull ache between her legs and in her stomach. Beside her, Gendry and Harwin slept, oblivious to Arya as she pushed the blankets down, fear running through her and her hands moved over the inside of her legs, dreading the sight of blood staining her breeches. But there was nothing there, no sight of blood on her finger tips or staining the sheets beneath her. The ache she felt was drifting away as the memory of her dream haunted her. Her breathing quickened and in all corners, lay monsters and Lannisters and the Mountain That Rides.

Arya felt like a child again and she couldn’t sleep, couldn’t close her eyes because all she could think about were all those girls who had been raped and all she had done was watch and be thankful it wasn’t her; her stomach turned over and her mouth was try but there was a wetness in her eyes as she crossed her legs over one another, as if it would save her if the Mountain came bursting through the door and had his way with her like Elia Martell and then kill the Stark girl as he had with Rhaegar’s wife.

Her hands were gripping her shirt and her eyes darted back and forth, from the door to the window and back again as she tried so very hard not to let them nightmare of her dream and the memories get to her but it was so very hard when all she wanted to do was sob; she had seen girls being violated and had done nothing to stop them, she had seen girls raped and beaten and she had done nothing to help them, she had seen so many atrocities and _she had done nothing._ The moon was sinking in the sky and she had hours to sleep but Arya was too frightened to close her eyes and fall asleep again. _Fear cuts deeper than swords, fear cuts deeper than swords._ She was bleeding on the inside from how much the fear cut her. And Arya sat there, hunched over her knees and eyes darting back and forth as the tiredness she knew all too well begged Arya to sleep but she would not allow it.

_Joffrey, Cersei, Illyn Payne, the Hound, the Mountain –_

Her eyes squeezed themselves shut at the name in her mind and Arya tried to be brave, tried not to let phantoms scare her but she had seen what he had done, had witnessed him torturing those villagers and rape those girls and kill those children it could have been her, _it could have been Gendry._ A dusty sob, covered in webs, was building up and Arya tried to push it down because wolves don’t cry and she was a wolf which meant she wasn’t scared of anything or anyone. She was supposed to bear her teeth and kill anyone who meant to hurt her but she had lost her only weapon and she wasn’t allowed to be a wolf, not anymore. _The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives_ , Father had said but she had survived all this time, had she not? The blanket lay at her feet and she ignored the cold, ignored the snoring of Harwin and the sounds of outside.

_It is fine, I am fine. I am a wolf. I am a Stark. I am stronger than them and I will kill them all. I will hurt them as they have hurt me, as they have hurt my family. Fear cuts deeper than swords, fear cuts deeper than swords, fear –_

“Arya?”

_Fear was consuming her and it was making it hard to breathe._

Arya turned her gaze to see Gendry peering at her with bleary eyes, still half closed and his voice thick with sleep. His hair was a mess and there was a faint pink hue on his cheeks from the warmth of the room. Arya felt ashamed to look at him and nearly turned away but Gendry was her friend and she didn’t treat friends badly.

“Are you alright?” his voice was a husky whisper, careful not to wake Harwin who had his back towards them, stinking of ale and half hanging off the bed. Arya would have given anything to sleep as soundly and deeply as her father’s former man did. Arya blinked the wetness in her eyes away, not wanting to look like a stupid child and took a deep breath, holding it for a heartbeat moment, and then letting it free, hoping to expel the terror in her veins.

“I just had a bad dream.” Saying it aloud made her feel slightly embarrassed, cheeks turning pink as she remembered it hadn’t been a bad dream completely, but Arya could never say that, not to him. Not even to herself.

“How long have you been awake?” Gendry was shaking the sleep from his eyes and trying to push himself up into more of a sitting position and Arya felt guilty because she had ruined his sleep, something she knew he sorely lacked due to their constant running and fighting.

“Just a few moments, it’s nothing, really,” Arya said, her voice also low and hoping that they would deter him from probing further. It didn’t. He was sitting himself up now, blinking away the sleepiness that hung at the corner of his eyes; already, the purple bruises that stained his skin was seeping away after managing to catch a few hours of blissful, deep sleep. She only wished she had been so lucky and Arya turned away, mouth stuffed with cotton and attempting to soothe the ache in her throat as a yawn made its way through his mouth but still, he did not turn away. _He knows I’m lying_ , a voice sighed. She only wished she knew herself half as good as he knew her.

“What was it about?” He sounded clearer, free from the fog and Arya tried desperately not to remember, tried not to think of how she dreamed of home, of Sansa, of Jon, _of Gendry touching her and kissing her like they were husband and wife._ Wrong, it was wrong to dream and to think and she grew frustrated and angry at herself. Surely, if he knew, he’d be disgusted.

Arya remained silent, staring at her toes as the pause of her response hung in the air. Arya wanted nothing more than to curl into a tight ball, to disappear from the world and to not exist, even if for a few moments. All those memories resurfaced; her father dying, Yoren choking on steel and blood, the girls crying as they were raped, defiled, by the men that were going to kill them when the red sun rose. She had buried them, buried those memories and nightmares, dirt and grass over nothing but horrid bones and here they were, crawling from their graves to drag back down. Her hand wandered to her throat and she half worried a bruise would be showing, a ringlet of blue and purple and fancier than any necklace she had ever worn.

“I dreamt…” _Of home, of you, of dead things and dead people._ “I dreamt… of being back in that village… I dreamt of those girls, and how… how I almost…” How she almost, what? Almost killed them? Almost fought back? Almost exacted justice? Laughable, she was a stupid little girl who couldn’t do anything right, who had lost her Needle and herself. Arya’s eyes squeezed shut and she tried to stop herself from trembling at the memories. Arya was a Stark, a wolf, a woman, and she would not be scared so easily. But it was hard, hard because they _did_ scare her, to her dismay.

“Arya?”

She squeezed her eyes so tightly that white spots burst in her vision and Arya hoped that it would make the world around her not real, to make _her_ not real.

“I’m frightened.”

As soon as the words spilled past her tongue, she wished to reel them back in but she couldn’t. He had heard them, of course he had heard them for he was silent and Arya could feel his sharp blue eyes on her, staring; he was probably going to laugh at her, chide her, make fun of her like when Sansa used to when they were younger and she still wanted to sleep with a candle lit to keep the monsters that wanted to eat her at bay. Every second was a heartbeat and Arya waited and waited and waited but no mocking or teasing words came. Then there was a warmth on her elbow and Arya turned, opening her eyes and seeing that it was his hand.

“I am, too.”

His words rang in her head and they stared at one another, gazes never wavering and the silence thick, forcing its way down her throat before Arya raised a hand to place over his.

“You are?”

“Yes.” He didn’t hesitate in telling her, didn’t pause or question his words. His face was paler, in the glow of the moonlight, as if he, too, was being forced to remember what they had seen, thrust back into that moment of when the world only consisted of death, blood, rape and pain in that barn. How they sat in their own filth in the mud and rain, waiting for the seemingly endless torture before the laughable mercy of death. “I was frightened seeing the Mountain, I didn’t want to die. It… Every day… I woke up and I begged that it wouldn’t be me. And… whenever they picked someone else, I…”

He didn’t finish his sentence but Arya knew, knew the words he was holding back because they were on her tongue as well and had been the source of the endless guilt that racked her body time and time again. _He had been glad that when they picked someone else, it wasn’t him._ Arya gripped his hand and tried to ignore the lump in her throat as she pulled his attention away from the nightmares, to pull him back to the world they lived in and to her.

“It’s not your fault,” she whispered. There was something swimming in his eyes, the ocean blue calm yet distant.

“Neither is it yours.”

And, without a second’s warning, she was pulled to him and Arya tried to breathe because _he was holding her_ , her hands trying to wrap their way around him as his own did the same; she could hear his heart beat, _not a dream_ , and she was encased in his smell, his touch, because _he was holding her._ It wasn’t a dream and it wasn’t going to be snatched away from her and her hands fisted his shirt, daring any god or spirit to try and tear her away from him. They stayed like that, wrapped around each other, in hopes that the comfort of a kind touch would dispel the memories of all the bad ones, all the fists thrown at their faces. The blankets remained kicked down, her feet somewhat cold compared to the rest of her body, especially her face. He smelt of rain, soot, sweat and the outside world. Arya could smell the soap of her hair as it curved along her jaw. The memory of her parents came to fore and how she would wedge them apart, the two holding smiles on their faces she didn’t understand when she was younger. The darkness of the room didn’t seem so terrifying anymore. But the thought of the Mountain instilled a terror Arya had once only reserved for the worst kind of monsters from Old Nan’s stories. She held onto Gendry just that bit tighter, trying to find something real amid all the demons and devils that were surrounding her.

“Do you think the nightmares will ever go away?” Gendry asked her, voice gentle but wavering, as if he was shocked at the words coming from his mouth. Arya blinked and tried to find the correct things to say. Behind her, Harwin snored and rolled onto his back.

“I hope so.”

Another pause.

“I feel as if they never will.”

Arya craned her neck to look at him but he had his eyes to the ceiling, eyebrows knotted together and jaw clenched, mouth in a straight line. She freed a hand and placed it where his heart was, fingers shaking at the feel of his heart thumping beneath them.

“That’s only if you let them. You’re stronger than they are. Don’t let them win.”

“And so are you.”

Arya didn’t feel strong; she felt weak, as weak as she had been to stop her father from dying. As weak as when she didn’t save Yoren, didn’t save the villagers, didn’t save those girls being raped. _I saved Gendry_ , a voice whispered, aware of the touch around her. Save one person, and she might have saved the world. _I wish I was stronger. I wish I could save Sansa and help Robb. I wish I had Needle._ The fear Arya felt could only distract her from the hole where her heart should have been for only so long. But the warmth of Gendry made it feel as if it were filled, an empty fullness that made Arya somewhat whole.

“I’m tired of having nightmares,” Arya said meekly, embarrassed and ashamed of feeling like a child again. _I am a wolf, I shouldn’t be so weak._ But the words were only air, leaving her body and leaving room for more important things. Gendry’s chest rose and fell in a sigh.

“You should try and sleep. Who knows how long we have left.”

_How long we have left to sleep, or how long we have left to be alive and to do so?_

Ignoring her thoughts, Arya indulged herself and wriggled closer, half thinking to use an excuse of not wanting to be near Harwin’s ale stinking body but Gendry didn’t say anything. The touch of another human being was as much of a comfort to him as it was to her.

Arya opened her mouth, to say something, anything, but her heart was lodged in her throat and it was difficult to breathe, surrounded by Gendry and his touch and scent and _him_. Her tongue was swollen in her mouth, unable to let words fall from the tip and her lips remained gnashed in a straight line, eyes focusing on a point in the darkness. Her list rang in her head, each time tripping and stumbling over the Mountain’s name but less each time. She was a wolf, a water dancer and _fear cuts deeper than swords._ She would not be a child and would not feel scared of fabled things.

Besides, the warmth around her was seeping into her bones and making any fear or fright that had consumed her become lesser and lesser, a single thread in her mind too thin to be a noose around her neck.

* * *

 

She awoke again, bones creaking and aches blooming in her joints. The sun’s light was trickling in through the window, orange and pink hues casting over the floor and catching on the dust moats. Arya blinked through the morning, gathering her thoughts and bearings as she watched the sight of the morning light mover further and further into the room. In Harrenhal, awaking before the sun had was beaten into her so no longer had her body wanted to give her pleasure of sleeping in.

Throughout her brief sleep, Arya had tossed and turned and lay on her back, arms and legs spread out, the blanket choking her ankles; beside her, Harwin lay on his stomach, his breathing softer and snoring quieter. Arya turned sideways, seeing that Gendry was facing her, lying on his side; she could faintly feel his breathing brush over her neck and jaw. His face remained emotionless, void of any expression but Arya found herself to be somewhat enraptured all the same. In the warm glow of the waking world, his skin seemed more golden, tanned from the kisses of the sun’s rays, and his eye lashes were long, caressing the tops of his cheeks and beneath, a splatter of gentle stars that ran over the bridge of nose to scatter beneath the other eye. He seemed so much younger, with a soft face, than he usually did when he scowled and frowned at everyone else. His curls spilled across his forehead, too long and splaying across the pillowcase, reminiscent of a halo.

Arya took a deep breath to calm the stuttering of her heart.

She turned to her side, moving closer to Gendry’s sleeping face, and drank him in; somewhere throughout the night, they had come apart but the bed was still small enough that their knees knocked together. Arya watched him sleep in an eternity of a moment, a calmness wrapping itself around her. _If he saw me now, he would be disgusted._ Arya let out a ghost of a laugh through her nose, and turned to sit up, turning away, and scuttling down the bed to slip her legs down from the mattress. Placing her boots back on and her jerkin (her chest hurt from the breast band that had become twisted from her twisting and turning) Arya stretched her arms over her head. Turning back to cast one more glance at the empty space where she lay and at Gendry’s sleeping form, Arya moved silently to leave, shoes making only the slightest of sounds. _Clever girls go barefoot,_ Jaqen had told her. _Clever girls don’t get caught,_ Arya spat.

The inn was quiet and the birds were beginning the song. Arya made her way down the stairs, the ones she remembered climbing the previous night, and wasn’t surprised to find the common room empty of patrons. Most must be upstairs sleeping or have left. Not even the fire was blazing, save for a few struggling embers that were being suffocated by ash.

There was a cold breeze and Arya thought to return to her safe and warm bed awaiting her upstairs but a clatter in the kitchens caught her attention. She spun around on her heel, heart picking up its pace as she crept forward, all too aware of her lack of weapons. _I can always scratch their eyes out._ As Arya drew closer, the all too familiar smell of bread overwhelmed her and when she entered, the surprise of Hot Pie being present was clear on her face.

“Hot Pie?”

The fat boy, with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and splattered with flour, looked up and seemed equally surprised to see Arya standing there in front of him.

“Oh! Arry!” His previous embarrassment and shyness had faded from him, though it might be from the lack of sleep Arya knew him to be suffering from as purple was present beneath his eyes. Arya looked around, unable to see another living soul and turned back to Hot Pie.

“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” Arya question, moving further into the room, pleased with the warmth and the aromatic smell of cooking bread. She spied cooked loafs of bread cooling on the window, grey wisps curling up and spinning around each other. A dull tightness in her stomach was forming but it was not something Arya wasn’t used to.

“Oh, uh… Sharna asked me to help with the baking,” Hot Pie explained but he was looking down and continued to knead the dough as if Arya wasn’t there. “I thought it only fair since she’s lettin’ us stay here.”

Arya blinked, unsure what to make of his words.

“Oh,” was all she thought to reply before her eyebrows drew together. She stood near Hot Pie, watching him continue to knead the dough over and over as her hands fiddled with the material of her breeches. “Did you sleep at all?”

“A little. It’s hard to sleep what with…” his voice trailed off and he stopped kneading the dough, staring down at his flour covered hands and Arya knew what he meant. She didn’t know what to say, how to comfort him; despite how annoyed he had been, he was her friend.

“I know. But… it’ll get better,” Arya said lamely, voice falling off of the steep edge. He didn’t look up but he picked up his actions again, pinching flour and sprinkling it.

“I really hope that,” Hot Pie muttered, more to himself than as a reply to Arya. It was silent for another brief while and Arya didn’t know how to fill the silence, unable to conjure words that had been so easy to make appear before.

“Is there anyone at the stables?” Arya asked, desperate for noise or to leave. Or both.

“I don’t think so, why?”

“I want to check on the horses.” And on the coin that Jaqen had given her. It had been out of sight and out of mind but she was worried nevertheless. “I’ll be back soon.”

“I can give you food, if you want. When everyone wakes up there probably won’t be that much to give out to everyone. And it’s warm and freshly baked,” Hot Pie offered. The thought of fresh food made her stomach grumble, pleading for relief.

“Alright, give me a few minutes.”

She turned from the kitchen, more so looking to breathe the fresh air and to hear the leaves and the birds singing their songs. She had spent so much time out there in the forest, among beasts and animals, that now the world of people seemed so strange. Arya re-entered the common room, somewhat disturbed at the silence that suffocated every corner of the room. Without the noise of men or the crackling of the fire, it felt soulless, a haunted place. Making a move to leave and check on the horses, Arya was close to the door when there was a thumping on the stairs, feet clambering over one another, sharp cracks on the steps. She turned, blinking, as the sight of Gendry barrelling down the stairs and into the common room took her attention. He was no longer the sleeping boy she had watched upstairs; his hair was a frazzled mess and the laces of his boots were undone and there was a redness to his cheeks and eyes almost frantic and wild, searching around him before they landed on Arya.

They stared at one another, Arya watching Gendry regain his breath and compose himself and him blinking at the sight of her.

“Good morning,” she said slowly, unsure and curious as to what had caused him to be so worried and frantic looking. He swallowed and the redness in his cheeks burned brighter. His tunic was somewhat askew. His curls were wild and a mess, standing in all directions.

“Good… morning,” he replied, clearing his throat as he straightened himself out.

“Are you sure? You don’t seem too sure about that,” Arya teased, amused at his unkempt appearance. It was obvious that he had thrown himself out of bed, not even bothering to lace his boots or tuck in his tunic. His cheeks turned even redder, delighting Arya.

“No, it’s just… I thought…” he trailed off, unable to finish his sentence, prompting Arya to raise her eyebrows in questions.

“You thought what?” she urged, waiting him to finish. Gendry paused a moment, looking at her with his ice blue eyes. The teasing side of Arya retreated and she fidgeted beneath his gaze, throat closing up and breath hitching before Gendry shook his head, curls bouncing around him.

“Nothing, it’s just I’m not used to sleeping in past dawn.” Arya knew the feeling but hers was only recent; back in Winterfell, she would have been able to sleep until late morning and even then, it was a job to get her to leave her warm blankets. There was another pause, the space between them too far for Arya’s taste and she bit her lip, looking around before back to Gendry.

“Do you want to sit? Hot Pie is making bread and he said he can bring some out,” Arya said, gesturing to the table near her, one of which had four rickety chairs pulled underneath. Gendry gave a nod and Arya pulled out a chair nearest to her, settling in and ignoring the uncomfortable it was, as Gendry moved to sit right across from her, sitting down but Arya could see the tension that lingered at the edges.

“How did you sleep?” Arya asked, leaning forward on the table and resting her folded arms on it, catching her feet around the legs of the chair, toes just about brushing the floorboards. Gendry pulled his chair in closer beneath the chair with his cheeks cooling down. He stared at the stains on the table, resting his elbows on the edge of the table.

“The same as always. It’s… hard,” he admitted, unabashed at the truth. “I guess it can only get better. We’ve been to hell and further. It can’t get worse.” He paused and then his eyes flickered up to hers. “Can it?”

Arya didn’t know; she had always thought it couldn’t get worse. When she had run from the Red Keep, she thought it couldn’t get worse. When she slept in the streets, she thought it couldn’t get worse. When they had murdered her father, she thought it couldn’t get worse. When they had murdered Yoren as well, she thought _it can’t, it can’t get worse, it cannot get worse than this._ The gods loved to prove her wrong.

“I hope not,” was all she could say. “Harwin is taking us to Riverrun, to my brother; Harwin is a good man and he’ll… he’ll protect us.” Though the words were falling past her lips, Arya didn’t quite believe them. He might have been her father’s man but… he was changed, he served others now. She only hoped whatever loyalty he had felt towards her family was pure and strong enough that he would follow through on taking her back home.

“Riverrun,” Gendry repeated, tasting the word in his mouth, a distant look on his face as he did so then looked to her, a smirk forming on the corner of his lips. “You’ll have to act like a lady, then.”

 “No, I won’t. I’m _not_ a lady,” Arya scoffed, rolling her eyes at him. It was irking her, making her annoyance inflate; he always called her a lady, always seemed to bring up her birth. She didn’t understand, was she not his friend first? Arya had never been a lady; Sansa had taken all the beauty and grace of a lady when she was born and left none for Arya.

“You look like one,” he commented, darting over her clean, somewhat bedraggled, hair and dirt clear face.

“I’m a _girl_ , that’s why,” Arya snipped, pursing her lips as her own gaze darted to his long locks; they were caught in his eyelashes and curled around his ears and jaw, a great mop of ink black strands. “ _You_ look like one.”

That caught Gendry’s attention and he blinked himself out of his daze, meeting her gaze with surprise and confusion. “How in Seven Hells do I look like a _girl_?”

“Your hair,” Arya said, indicating with a tilt of her head towards him. “It’s long.”

He frowned at that. “It isn’t _that_ long.” Arya thought of Jon Snow and his own long locks and how he would scowl when being forced to cut them. Arya examined Gendry’s hair for a moment, moving back and forth before meeting his eyes.

“I could cut it if you want.” His eyebrows disappeared beneath his fringe at her words, in disbelief at the notion of Arya cutting his hair.

“You? Do you even know how to?” He inquired, indulging Arya in her request. She gave a small shrug as a response.

“Of course, I know how to.” It wasn’t entirely true but it wasn’t a lie either. Gendry reached up to brush a strand that was caught in his vision. “Here let me show you.”

Without a warning, Arya leaned over the table, unfolding a hand and reaching across, the pads of her fingers brushing over his fringe and forehead momentarily before Gendry darted back, pulling himself away from her touch, eyes wide.

“What are you doing?” he snapped, not out of anger or annoyance but more out of shock from how carelessly and thoughtlessly she had sought him out. Arya’s hand remained suspended, looking at him as if the answer was clear.

“Trying to see how much I would cut off?” It was framed as if it was the most obvious thing, laid before his eyes that were forcing themselves closed.

He remained silent for a moment, looking to her hand that was seeking him out and then to her, eyebrows raised and waiting for him. Slowly, Gendry consented, moving back into the table and, to her suppressed delight, to Arya’s hand. He stared at it as if it were a rabid dog seeking to bite him and she waited, watching him lean back into the curve of her hand. Her fingertips brushed over the strands of hair, remembering how the last time she had done so was back in that village, sludge running through her fingers as they rested on the crown of his head. Arya picked up a fallen curl and stretched it, watching it fall past his eyes. His hair was surprisingly soft but it was greasy too, stringy as hers had been but it wasn’t the knotted rats nest that had made it near to impossible for Sharna to brush out. Gendry’s eyes remained on Arya’s face, watching her and it made her heart begin to beat faster, hands somewhat shaking as she built up more courage to reach closer, fingers running further into his hair. The tip of the table dug harshly and dully beneath her rib cage and she wasn’t quite sitting on her table anymore, but it didn’t matter to Arya anymore. Red rose petals grew in her cheeks and it was getting harder to breathe from the intensity of Gendry’s stare; she swept some curls behind his ears but a few fell, tumbling after one another to rest at his jaw. Her hands trembled slightly as she ran the tips of her fingers briefly along his cheek bones to pick the fallen strands up, gently trying to brush them back behind the ear. This time they stayed.

Arya was lost in his hair and the feel of him and the pounding of her heart. She might have heard his own breathing hitch but it was probably her own. Her voice long since died in her throat, over taken by a lump and the dryness of her mouth as her fingers skimmed the curve of his ear, running along the strands of hair before pause at his jaw. She had become so entranced, so bewitched, by him that she almost didn’t hear him say her name, calling her softly back to the land of the living. Their eyes met, closer than she had realised, and Arya’s had remained along his jaw, unable to move and too terrified to continue. He was so close she could _almost_ –

The sound of feet made Arya retract her hand quickly, as if she had been burned and Gendry pulled himself away, chair screeching against the floor with both of their cheeks red. Arya turned to see it was only Hot Pie, holding loaves of freshly baked bread to their table. He remained oblivious to the predicament he nearly witnessed, or maybe he was a good actor.

“Oh, Gendry. If I had known you were awake I would have brought more,” Hot Pie said, giving hint that he was, in fact, ignorant of what had nearly happened. He placed the bread on the table and Arya’s hand darted out, grabbing a loaf and quickly shoving it into her mouth, barely tasting the gloriousness of Hot Pie’s baking.

“I just woke up there,” Gendry said lamely, clearing his throat and mimicking Arya by taking a bite of the food.

“Well, I’ll bring more out. The others will be waking soon so I better keep making more.” Gendry gave a hum through the mouthful of bread as his reply and Hot Pie, satisfied at the food being eaten and enjoyed, turned back into the kitchen. The silence was awkward and Arya’s cheeks burned fiercely as she munched on the bread that was admittingly good.

They stayed like that, not talking and too engrossed in eating until they ran out of bread to stuff their faces with.

“Is Riverrun far?” Gendry asked, voice low and barely glancing at her. Relief spread through Arya at the chance to leave what had happened in the past.

Still, there was a tingling in her hand that continued to linger no matter what.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen i dont even know what this chapter is only that it's the longest chapter i've ever written and it's really late so i pumped out the last 3k in two hours okay it's unedited so sorry for all the mistakes 
> 
> i need to mention once again that updates WILL become a LOT slower because I am back at school and it's my last year of school and it's a very important exam year which means a lot less writing and more studying. i only got this up because it's only the start of the second week of school and i've had not that much homework and studying to do. 
> 
> anyways i hate this chapter so much please enjoy 
> 
> comments are always appreciated by the very tired writer!


	22. Forest Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amidst the war ravaging the land of Westeros, a lone Stark must find her way home, to her true family.
> 
> And yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I do not own any of the characters, places or story lines (unless stated otherwise) mentioned in the work; they all belong to their owner: G.R.R Martin  
> \- Mostly original dialogue.  
> \- A work of fiction previously known as "The Bull and the Wolf."  
> \- comments are very much appreciated!  
> \- for any more information, check out my profile!

**** **_Chapter Twenty-Two_ **

For Arya, home was anywhere she could sleep and not wake up to a knife to her throat. It was the brief illusion of safety, the grass she slept on when Yoren would be on watch; sometimes it was a flicker in the dark of night while in her bed at Harrenhal, ignoring the stench and sounds of men around her and tricking her mind into thinking the rough thread dragging its nails across her skin was really the gentle caress of silk.  The inn had been her home, even if only for a little while. It was small, wooden walls being all that stopped her from being exposed to the forces of the natural world, yet the warmth was over flowing, seeping and leaking through the cracks in the shape of its golden light. The smell of bread was intoxicating, and Arya could never get enough, lungs pooling with the scent.

Hot Pie had told her that same morning hours later, his eyes refusing to meet hers and his cheeks splotched with red, shuffling from foot to foot. She should have seen it, should have known from how he acted, how he worked in the kitchen, whispered with Husband. She had let her guard down, had let things slip by her and it was something that, much to her chagrin, surprised her. _A wolf must always be on its guard. Every foe is a potential friend, every friend is a potential foe._ But Arya couldn’t be angry at him, not really. He was slow and fat and lazy, and he ate, talked and slept too much; but, besides all that, Hot Pie was her friend, was he not? He had given her food in Harrenhal, talked to her, laughed with her and he trusted her.

There were no tears in her eyes or a promise to meet again. Arya didn’t like to make false promises, not anymore. All those words people had said to her were sand on her tongue, promises that were snapped in two and the splinters shoved into her mouth. Still, Arya stared at her friend, watching him as she tried to say something, anything. There were so many people she never got to say goodbye to.

“Goodbye, Hot Pie,” she spoke, finally and voice clear. Would he think her so cruel to not shed a tear? Sansa had cried and cried saying good bye to their mother and Robb, crystal tears slipping over feather lashes and down the white lily canvas of her cheeks. Even when crying, Sansa still looked every bit the lady. Awkwardly, Arya reached a hand out and it found its way on top of Hot Pie’s shoulder, unsure and light. “Take care.”

There was a pause, a breath, and maybe a mumble, before Arya slipped her hand from his shoulder and stepped away. Arya wanted to laugh at herself; how stupid was she that she honestly thought he would want to stay with her? Everywhere she went, death followed; or maybe that’s who she was: Death. Her father was dead, Yoren was dead, all those men in Harrenhal were dead. Could she really blame anyone for not wanting to linger so close to her? She was a snow storm and any who tried to cross her ended up buried within the grave she made them dig.

The clatter around her of the men packing and chatting was background noise, a hush of wind over leaves as she tried so desperately not to let herself sink back into those thoughts.

Behind her, feet crunching on the dead leaves and Hot Pie turned his eyes over her shoulder as she turned her gaze to see it was Gendry coming up behind them; he still looked uneasy, out of place, like as if the men that they were going to travel with were going to kill them in any moment. There was a knot in Arya’s stomach, twisting and tangling, forbidding her to become completely at rest. She was naked without any weapons; they had taken her dirk and the rusted tooth of steel that was her pathetic excuse for a sword. She didn’t have her Needle, all she could hope to do was run and hide if the Brotherhood did decide to turn on them. Gendry was tall and strong, and he always looked angry with that frown on his lips. Even some of the men seemed to be going out of their way to not be in his path.

Gendry stood beside Arya, looking down at Hot Pie as the fat boy gave a trembling half smile. Arya wondered if Gendry knew Hot Pie was going to abandon them and why he did not tell her. _Friends don’t lie,_ Arya echoed. They were friends, they weren’t supposed to lie and keep secrets. Of course, Gendry would have told her if he knew. Arya’s cloudy eyes turned away and there was a brief silence. Though he did not say, Arya knew Gendry could tell goodbyes were passed; how could he not have known? Both she and the fat boy were standing close, awkward and unmoving, his back to the inn and hers to the band of men. Even so, his eyes darted down to her and she picked up his glance, an unsure smile curling on her lips before Arya looked to the forest floor, the hues of gold, green and orange spilling and waves being picked up by the wind.

“I’m sorry… for eating all the food, and not knowing how to hold a sword,” Hot Pie spluttered, taking to wringing his hands in front of him as his pudgy cheeks steadily grew warmer and redder. “And for falling asleep and talking a lot.”

Gendry let out a breathy laugh, the corner of his lip quirking up. There was a stutter, a crash, in her chest at the sound and her mouth felt dry, but her throat did not ache as it would if she was truly parched. Her hair felt cool against her skin, a blanket of clean strands that brushed their fingertips against the rosy hued parchment, too short to be tied from her face without it falling free, but long enough to annoy her at the same time. The warmth in her cheeks wasn’t wrong, but she felt it was and hid, looking down and trying to get lost in the dirt, leaves half sunken in from being stepped on.

_How long? How long until he leaves me too?_

No, she could not, _would_ not, think such things. Gendry was her friend, the only person in the entire world that she could trust. That coil around her heart loosened and she shook those horrible thoughts as if they were nothing, but mere leaves caught in a storm. They were friends, and he wasn’t going to leave her, and she would never, ever leave him; the gods, Old and New, were not brave enough to try.

Gendry, that smile that curved his lips but did not reach his eyes, reached out a hand, more natural than she had been, and clapped it onto Hot Pie’s shoulder, nearly startling the fat boy and Arya thought her eyes could see a small cloud of dust twist and twirl into the sky from Gendry’s action. Never had Gendry shown any real sign of friendship towards the younger boy but, now, he held his large hand onto their companion and gave him a soft smile, but it wasn’t like the ones he gave Arya.

“You take care, Hot Pie,” Gendry said and then slipped his hand from Hot Pie’s shoulder, letting it fall to his side; maybe it was Arya’s imagination, but she felt the back of his hand smooth over hers, skimming the surface and leaving ripples through her body. She bit her tongue and pushed those thoughts, those feelings, away in a box and locked them.

“You too, Gendry,” was Hot Pie’s reply and there was a shine in his buggy eyes, the mud of his irises wetter and slippery as he sniffed. Arya didn’t know if he was upset at the prospect of being separated or was joyous at the realisation that no more would he have to run and hide like a coward. Maybe he was the luckiest one out of them all, for he was safe and unwanted and could become an unimportant face in the background, melting away from sharp eyes.

There was a beat of silence before Hot Pie blinked, coughing a wet cough, and tried to smile but it wasn’t pretty. “I should go; Sharna wants me baking more loafs before we run out.”

It could have been an excuse, one to get away from both Gendry and Arya as fast as possible and put a wall between them so he could forget them both, or it could have been the truth but by then, Arya didn’t find it within her to care, leaving a pit of guilt digging itself deeper inside of her. Hot Pie was her friend but now he’s not because he’s leaving her, and she didn’t have time fretting over someone who leave her behind to save themselves.

And, besides, she still had Gendry and that’s what she cared about most.

They watch as the fat boy turned away from them, his back equally as unattractive as his face, as he hobbled back into the inn, mud sucking in his feet and squelching. It felt strange to watch him go but Arya had said her goodbyes, had closed that chapter and was turning the page, hoping she wouldn’t get a paper cut. Beside her, Gendry let a hummed sigh bleed out through his lips and she turned her eyes upwards to gaze at him, eyes looking for an answer.

Now that she had allowed herself to focus fully on him, she could only blink slowly; there was no longer dirt and grime smeared across his face, the golden tones warmer and cleaner. His hair shone in soft curls, looping and winding around one another as if lovers in a dance and they curved around his ears, his jaw, the clipped not shaven beard. He still wore his own clothes (Arya doubted that the inn had men as tall and strong as Gendry pass through), but they looked, _smelt_ , fresh and soap filled her lungs, better than any of the sweet-smelling scents that would be caught in the strands of her mother’s hair. He looked older, less like a child and more like a man. That dryness in Arya’s mouth got worse and her breathing stilted, yet she could not drag in the air to fill her lungs because all she could do was _stare_. Before, she had thought him handsome, like one of the knights some Sansa’s stories that she would describe to the last detail – but _now_? There was no doubt and it made Arya feel small, made her Arya Horseface again. Jeyne’s neighs echoed in her ears and shattered in her heart and Arya buried the remnants of her childhood because no use crying over scars.

“What?” she asked, surprised that her voice hadn’t died, and Gendry looked to her; his eyes were the same and they would always be the sharpest, coldest blue no matter if he was covered in dirt and sweat or the finest silks.

“Will you miss him?” he questioned, turning his body so that they were facing each other completely. Around them, the men continue to dawdle and chat, packing their bags and loading their horses but they are background noise, filtered out so only his voice can be focused on.

“Will _you_?” Arya retorted, settling back into a relaxed state, one where they can openly tease and talk to one another without the fear of the Bloody Mummers jumping at them from behind a tree or a bush. There’s a breeze and her strands were caught, strands catching that wave until she grabbed a tuft to hook behind her ear as Gendry’s own hair was let free, mussed up yet not ridiculously so. He didn’t care how he looked because no matter what, he would always look handsome.

“Will you think I’m cold and cruel if I say no?” There’s amusement in his voice and Arya didn’t know how much she longed for it until he speaks. She snorted and turned towards the inn, but Hot Pie wasn’t in sight. Her arms found their way across her chest and Arya tried to ignore the tightness of the breast band, finding it to feel strange and foreign, as she takes a deep breath.

Sharna had also asked her if she had bled and, with bright scarlet cheeks, Arya had told her no before Sharna slipped her square pieces of fabric with a stern and almost worried eye, almost wanting to say something, anything, but her lumpy lips couldn’t find the grace to form the words. Arya didn’t know why the older woman would be worried, but she didn’t bother to dwell on it.

“It’s too early to tell,” Arya sighed, trying to ignore the goose bumps that rippled up her arm and turned back to Gendry, a glint glistening in her storm cloud like eyes. “We can always come back if you miss him. If you start crying in your sleep, I won’t tell anyone.”

It was Gendry’s turn to snort and he rolled his eyes, but there was a tilt in the corner of his lips. “Oh please, I’m pretty sure if I step back in this inn, Sharna will kill me – I don’t think she’s forgiven me for getting blood all over her floors.”

The memory of Gendry and his fist barrelling into Lem’s ugly face, again, again, and again springs to mind; here had been blood, lots of it and most of it from the yellow coated warrior whose nose was so broken and swollen, Arya wondered if it would ever deflate. She didn’t know why Lem wasn’t as furious or bitter as he should have been; a years old warrior was taken down by a green boy of seven and ten yet, he did not corner Gendry and try to exact revenge.

Now that Arya thought about it, it was all just too _strange_ ; to them, she was Arya Stark of Winterfell, and Gendry was… she didn’t know what Gendry was. But they did like to stare at him, watch him and her as they talked and stood next to one another because they trusted each other above all others. Yet, they did not talk down to him or belittle him (if they had she would have clawed their eyes out before Gendry could have put his fist through their face). Tom’s peculiar interest in her friend went by unquestioned, but not unnoticed by the Stark girl.

“You’re more scared of Sharna than _Lem?_ He _is_ the one who you did beat up – quite severely. I don’t think his nose has stopped bleeding,” Arya said, and the both turn in unison to look at the older man, who had been so easy to spot because of his disgusting yellow cloak that was more mud than mustard. His nose was swollen, red and angry and there _was_ blood dried along the nostrils, cracking and flaking, making Arya scrunch her face up. As if knowing someone was staring, Lem’s eyes darted up from beneath the helmet he wore, beady eyes narrowing and glowering at the two before they turned away. Gendry gave a simple, half-hearted shrug.

“At least I know I can hit him back,” Gendry admitted. “I wouldn’t feel right about hitting a girl.”

Arya mimicked Lem’s glare and her own eyes became picks, digging at him as she glared. “A girl can hit just as hard as a boy.”

Then, Winterfell and her wooden sword smacking across Bran’s leg, shoulder, stomach before he collapses, wheezing yield before she hears the scandalised scream of her Septa at the sight of Arya covered in mud, dressed ripped and frayed because it was too long for her to move in. The week of being confined to her room was only made bearable by Jon Snow sneaking in sweet cakes and Bran telling her stories and jokes, the bruises on his exposed skin making her feel guilty until he shrugged, as if to say _it’s my own fault for not beating you._ An ache in her heart and it hurts to think of home, of Bran, of Jon, and she banished the ghosts who sigh in her mind.

“Really? You’d think that you’d be able to hit me as hard as I would hit you?” Gendry taunted but it isn’t full of malice, isn’t leaking with hatred but it’s a tease, blue eyes glinting and amused, one that makes her cheeks red and a fire in her heart burn. She huffed, arms across her chest now in defence and rolled her eyes, grey as the storm clouds above them, thunder rolling, crackling.

“You wouldn’t be able to hit me,” Arya declared, almost smug. It had been so long since she had trained, so long since Syrio’s voice was as sharp as the hits from the wooden sword and it hurts to think of him, to never know. _Not today,_ Syrio had told. But when? One day, death would come for her. “Waterdancers are fast; you wouldn’t be able to catch me.”

Then, that quirk in his lips, Arya can see it curling and she feels like she did whenever one of her brothers would be ready to knock her into the ground, to wrestle and knock elbows and knees to burst bruises beneath the skin. It made her feel young, made her remember that that she _was_ young and not old and decrepit, all rusty hinges and cobwebbed hairs. His eyebrow tilted up, the fringe of his hair curling over it, and Arya mashed her lips into a straight line, because there’s that smile creeping up on her, crawling its way to her mouth.

“Oh? You think so?” he asked, and Gendry took a step forward, to spook her more than anything, and Arya darted back, ready to curl hands into non-threatening fists but then, he laughed. She had grown up with boys her entire life and became quick on her feet, or else she would have been knocked off them. The memory of Bran more than once catching her, his foot twisting around her ankle and falling, straight into the mud and mouth full of the dirt before turning and doing the same to him, laughing through the ebbing, stinging, joyous pain.

And he’s laughing too, Gendry, but it’s a low rumble, a snort at her as if to say something to her but she can’t comprehend.

“Alright, I believe you,” Gendry relented, moving his foot back. Arya’s eyes narrow, always hesitant to relax, but remembers that this was Gendry, _Gendry_ , not one of her brothers who would say that and then push her back into the mud, and she was safe, however unstable. And, with more rust than she thought, Arya slipped back to her normal stance, all those knots that had retied becoming loose and free, ropes hanging free. Such an act had propelled her back to more innocent times and Arya didn’t know if it made her feel better – or worse. He straightened his back, reaching for the sky and its golden, crowning sun that caught itself on his own crown. All that loneliness, pain and sorrow, that was becoming entombed in her didn’t seem so heavy on her shoulders because she had Gendry, her friend, who was braving it across this endless stretch of war and death by her side.

“Now that Hot Pie’s gone we don’t have to be sharing a horse anymore,” Gendry stated. Arya didn’t know if it was more for her, or for him; it hadn’t been something Arya had thought about truthfully, because it almost seemed decided that wherever Gendry would go, Arya would follow, and where she went, he would shadow. There’s was something in her tummy, a knot and Arya pursed her lips.

“Well, you don’t know how to ride a horse,” she snipped, sounding too harsh on her own ears and her tongue curled in her mouth, softening it for gentler words. Her teeth felt like knives, carving her voice into something sharper. “I mean, it would be safer to stick together.”

He turned to her, and he’s _looking_ at her in a way she doesn’t know, a word that hasn’t been filed into her vocubulary yet. “I thought you trusted them, so why would it be safer?”

Why was she floundering? _Let him take the damn horse,_ she snaps but it’s pushed behind by something else. “Yes, I do. I do trust Harwin, but what if the Bloody Mummers come? Or Lannisters? What if we get seperated?” Lannister lions and their biting teeth sank their way into her heart, the fear oozing out but Gendry gives that laugh again, a reassuring one that doesn’t feel reassuring because she doesn’t want her worst fear to be realised. She never got to say goodbye to so many people and she didn’t want to add his name to the list too.

“We won’t be, I promise,” Gendry said and his voice is soft enough that it eases her worries, even if only temporarily. She feels skittish, young, as if she’s six all over again and making Jon check for monsters beneath the bed. Only the monsters were hiding in the bushes, in the dark foliage with glinting golden hair and piercing green eyes. Arya wonders if he can hear the chatter of her heart that are echoing drums in her ears.

“Are you sure?” Arya suddenly feels hopeless, less like herself and crumbling before him. So long had she been strong, a pillar, that the foundations had been worn away without her noticing. How long had it been since she been so dependent on another person? Her father, Yoren maybe, but it’s all so long ago. It made her feel like a nuisance, weak for clawing through the armour she had been forced to wear. She thinks that maybe he’s going to laugh at her, to knock her down and make her Arya Horseface. Sansa would have.

But Gendry was different.

Gendry was kind to her, and listened. He had always listened to her, followed her steps. Now, she would let herself do the same, to follow him and listen to him.

“I promise, Arya. We won’t get seperated.”

So, when he says that, she believes him wholeheartedly.

* * *

 

Her back felt cold, despite the muggy air. There’s so much more room in her saddle than she remembered and the frown on her face is heavy from how long it has been sitting there. The reins in Arya’s hand were rough, gnawing away at the calloused skin but it was a feeling she had grown accustomed to after so many years. Beside her, Gendry sat atop of his own horse and at the other side of Arya was Harwin.

Arya didn’t know how the Brotherhood had managed to stay hidden for so long because they did love to talk; Tom would never hesitate to pick up his harp and run his fingers over the strings, voice carrying over the winds, fearless and unwavering, while the other men were loud, making a rauckus, and they wandered through the forest as if there was no war, no need to be frightened of the lions that prowled in the dark corners of the woods, or the Mountain that loomed over head.

Harwin is hesitant to talk to her, about what happened, what was happening, and she was all too keen to hold her tongue because talking about those things made them real and made it harder to think of them as long distant nightmares she would dream in the dark of her chambers back in Winterfell and she’s not ready to face that reality, not yet. So, he talks to Gendry instead.

“It must have been a terrible sight to see in Harrenhal,” Harwin talks, not looking to her friend. “It’s lucky you escaped when you did. News is that that leech Bolton has taken it over for himself.”

“Bolton?” Gendry echoed, the name unfamiliar but sour in his mouth. The word ‘leech’ was not lost on him.

“Aye, a right bastard if any. His family used to practise flaying – still do, some say – and why Robb Stark has him on his side, I’ll never know.” At that, Harwin’s eyes dart to Arya but she remained stoic, drinking in the words but not reacting. She could understand Harwin on the matter of the Bolton’s; every child grew up with learning of the dreaded Boltons and their Dreadfort, how there were whispers that they even had skins of previous Wardens and Kings of the North. The thought made Arya feel as if a knife was already peeling away at her but she ignored it.

“What of the Bloody Mummers?” Gendry inquired, hoping to put to bed the worries Arya knew he felt about the frightful group. Harwin gathered spit in his mouth and shot it through his lips in disgust at the name.

“Aligned himself with Bolton. Probably hoping to take control of that damned graveyard for all its worth,” Harwin hissed. There was a bad taste in Arya’s mouth and she felt like spitting too; she wondered if Robb knew, or if he even cared. Had the crown on his head acted like a shield to prevent common sense getting in?

“Won’t the Lannisters be angry?” A frown was on Gendry’s lips, as if he was truly annoyed about the tossing and turning of names, of loyalties, of ownerships and rules in the world of nobility. Arya’s own head hurt too, but that was only because she couldn’t stand the thought of Vargo Hoat not meeting what was coming to get him. One day, she would rip his fat tongue from his mouth and make him swallow it, hoping he would choke.

“Oh, I’d say Harrenhal isn’t what’s worrying old Tywin Lannister; he’s losing battles, more than he aught to, and I’d say that he’s too focused on the King in the North to worry about a burnt out castle,” Harwin snorted. However, his words peaked Arya’s interest. She had known about Robb’s victories, but did not know the extent of them.

“Robb’s winning the war?” Arya asked, half in disbelief, and half in sceptisim. The thought of crushing the lions beneath her paws, of being able to return home without the fear of being hunted and pushed into one corner was almost too unrealistic for Arya; when was the last time she had known peace? Had known safety? It had been so long that the mere thought of it was something she could have laughed at. But, there was hope; maybe, one day, she would be able to return home.

Harwin shifted in his seat, as if uncomfortable, and ran a tongue over his teeth, testing the words he wanted to say. “There’s a difference between winning a few battles and winning the war. Doesn’t help that Stannis and Renly Baratheon are at each other’s throat, declaring themselves to be the rightful King, and refusing to help your brother unless he bends the knee.”

That frown on Gendry’s face deepened, his brow knitting together. “Baratheon? Wasn’t the old King a Baratheon? Why are his brothers calling themselves the King?”

Harwin didn’t speak for a moment, lost in the road ahead, the canopy of trees sighing as the leaves rustled. The hot muggy air was warm in Arya’s lungs, watching as Harwin reached forward to pat the thick neck of his horse, turning eyes towards Gendry, seeing through Arya and yet not seeing Gendry as he should have. Her eyes narrowed and there was a secret folding itself in Harwin’s eyes, one she did not like.

“Aye, that he was. Problem is, whatever children he had left behind were bastards or not his,” Harwin spoke finally, a sigh hanging on the ends of his words as he sat right in his saddle again.

“What do you mean ‘not his’?” Arya jumped, attention grasped. She thought of Jeoffry, of his wormy lips that curved into a knife like smile, slithering tongue darting out to let slip words to Sansa that were so sweet that it made Arya’s choke, recoiling. Myrcella, who had been as pretty as she was airheaded, talking only of the weather and of dresses, a perfect companion for Sansa. And Tommen, round Tommen who had been more bearable to be around mostly because he was as young as Rickon, yet not as wild or fierce. Harwin’s face pinched, as if there was something truly disgusting forcing its way down his throat, dirt and lemons.

“Stannis Baratheon’s declared himself to be the rightful king because all of Robert Baratheon’s children aren’t really his – they’re bastard born between the Queen and the Kingslayer.”

Arya’s stomach clenched and that terrible taste Harwin must have tasted was on her tongue. She thought of the Targaryens, as beautiful as they were sinful; wedding brother and sister, father and daughter, a family who sought so hard to perfect their bloodline that they muddied it in the end. The Mad King who had cooked her grandfather alive, Rhaegar Targaryen who kidnapped and raped her aunt, her aunt who was a maiden of only six and ten and he, a married man of one and twenty. Yet, she could not hate the children for what they were (they had plenty of other of reasons for her to depise them) and could only blame their ill-fated lives; to live as abominations all because of the sins of their parents.

“‘The Kingslayer’?” Gendry echoed, unsure of the name but knowing it to be a one for mockery. Harwin spat again.

“The Queen’s brother,” he explained and Gendry’s face soon matched Arya’s; the face of disgusted mingling with the nausea that settled into his features.

“The King is... he’s...” Gendry couldn’t find it within himself to finish the sentence.

“He’s ain’t the King – not the rightful one anyway,” Harwin grumbles, voice gruff and Arya unglued her tongue roof the roof of her mouth. So much had been happening outside of her own world that it was hard to believe it were true.

“Then why is he still on the throne? Why isn’t anyone trying to stop him?” Why, why, why echoed in her heart, pounding off the walls of the hole that was the shape of her father, of her mother, of Jon, of Bran.

“Aside from Stannis Barathein’s word, there’s no evidence, nothing to prove it right,” Harwin sighed.

Arya had never met Stannis Baratheon, but she had heard of him from the mouths of her father’s men; they had all called him a _dry bastard_ and that he was more stone than man. They hadn’t liked him, no one had, but she wondered why they hated him so; was he not too just a man that would break before he would bend? Arya understood, she would rather had the skin sewn to her bones ripped before she would bend before Joffrey. The Lions may have claws and gold, but a wolf gets the delight to taste the blood when sinking their teeth into their prey’s neck.

Beside her, Gendry seemed green, pale, and his jaw was clenched so tightly it might have been wired that way. There was a coil in her stomach too and the mere thought of –

It was too vile to even _think_.

Arya pressed her heels into the beast, urging and gaining its attention as she tugged at its reins so that it turned towards Gendry, bringing them closer together, the door to Harwin closed.

“It’s _disgusting_ ,” Gendry said, Arya watching as he suppressed a shudder. There was a knot as he brought his brow together, looking to her. “How can they do that, and not be punished?”

That was something Arya wanted to know too; why _they_ were given throwns and crowns of gold for their colden crowns while her brother, sweet Jon Snow, was seen as less than the dirt they stepped on, why Gendry was seen as a brute mule. She shook her head, that vile taste on her tongue again but the bitterness of anger again. So much wrong with the world, and all the goodness was being leeched out, washed away in the tide of war and death.

“I remember seeing them in Winterfell for the first time,” Arya spoke, tone nearly wistful were it not filled with venom. “They were all so...” The sentence hung, falling, and Gendry looked to her.

“So...?”

“So _Lannister._ Blonde hair, green eyes,” she described, thinking how such beautiful people be so _ugly?_ As she spoke, it all became clearer; how had they all been so blind? “They didn’t look anything like the King. I don’t know why...”

Gendry gave a scoff, gathering the spit in his mouth, as Harwin had, and spat onto the dirt, getting rid of the poison that was leaking into his voice. “Lords and ladies; getting away with even the most evil of things. Thinking that their gold and their silks can protect them from anything and everything”

Though part of Arya agreed – she had lived and breathed in that world, ate with thos esame people and despised them for it – she found herself almost resenting the statement; was she not also one of those people, who had lived naïvely thinking that the castle walls were able to stop the forces of nature, the time that dripped by?

“That’s not true,” her voice almost seemed small. Though thoughts of her sister and Jeyne Poole’s constant bullying were present, there were memories of her mother and father, kind and caring to those they ruled over. “My father was kind and just. He wasn’t like them at all.”

There was a pride in her voice and her back straightened and it almost didn’t hurt to speak of him, not as it used to; she remembered those early days, lost and floundering in the sea of Ned Stark’s blood and his head as it _thumped_ and how it echoed in her ears. The pang broke through her ribs, to where her heart was, but a breath, a wave of air to dredge it up, and push it out to make it that bit more bearable. A thoughtful look passed over Gendry’s features, silent as he chewed on his words, tasting them to see how they fared.

“I met your father in my shop,” he spoke, unsure and checking, eyes flittering to see if she would come undone to cry. Arya had spent enough time crying over dead men, her tears watering the weeds that would grow on their graves. “He was... nice. Wasn’t dressed like the other lords were.”

Something in Arya’s heart exploded and there was a smile on her face, something she couldn’t fight and she tugged at the horse’s reins, bringing her in closer to Gendry so that their knees could brush over one another. Talking about her father made him real, more than a ghost.

“Really?” she asked, breathless and somewhat giddy. She had known that her father and Gendry had met but before the grief had been too overwhelming, threatening to drown her. But now it felt somewhat healing to speak of him, to know that others knew him to be a good man, a king man. Her father, not the traitor. “He was nice? How so?”

There was something like a smirk on Gendry’s face at Arya’s probing and he was looking at her. Arya wondered if the other men were listening in but Tom’s loud singing snared in a few of the others and none seemed to care about the words passed between the two of them, not that Arya cared. There was something mischeivious in Gendry’s eyes, waiting to speak and keeping Arya on the edge.

“When I told him my helmet wasn’t for sale, I thought he would get angry at me but he didn’t,” Gendry revealed, Arya’s ears tuned in to every word that fell passed his lips. “He even told Tobho Mott that if I ever wanted to learn how to swing a sword, I should be sent to him.”

“Would you?” she blurted out. “Have wanted to learn how to fight, I mean.”

Gendry paused and gave a shrug. “I don’t know; I didn’t really have time to think about it. Next thing I know I’m being sent to the Wall. And by then, he was already being branded a traitor to the crown.”

Whatever light feeling that had enveloped Arya turned freezing now, a cold reminder of how her father had been imprisioned, had his men killed and how he had been murdered. She sat back in her saddle again, staring at the twitching eyes of her horse as it pricked up at any sound that chirped in the leaves. There was heavy stone in her stomach again, weighing her down as the prickling in her eyes bgan to sting.

“I don’t believe if, you know,” Gendry spoke and Arya turned to him, questioning. He stared straight ahead but Arya could see the way his features twisting, gloominess hammering its way in there like he would hammer on an anvil. She wanted to speak, to ask, but was afraid her voice might crack and break free the tears. Arya was so tired, so, so, so tired of crying but that didn’t mean the tears would ever stop. They never did. At her silence, Gendry looked her in the eyes and there was something comforting in them, the blue warm, reminding her of summer skies. “That your father was a traitor; I don’t believe it. I think... I think Lord Eddard Stark was a good man.”

Those words, which had seem only like a small voice in Arya’s head for the past months, broke something in her and she gave a wet smile, swallowing the lump in her throat, the _thank you_ that wanted to be said was sitting on her tongue. Arya gave a cough, blinking to push away the gathering wet droplets, and readjusted herelf in the saddle, ignoring the dull, familiar ache in her thighs.

“Thank you,” she finally said, voice coarser, rougher, than she would have liked it to be. “I don’t think there are many people alive now who would agree with you, not this far South.”

Gendry snorted, a crude sound. “I don’t care whether people agree with me or not. I’ve never cared what other people thought, never have.”

It wasso different to Arya, who had always wanted to pry open people’s thoughts to know because what if they had hated her, what if they were only pretending to be nice to her because she was a Lord’s daughter? What if they all thought her to be annoyed and whispered Arya Horseface behind her back like her sister would say to her face? All those old worries were so small, so insignificant in the grander scheme of things, but even now, that small part of Arya that didn’t die, continues to quiz, to wonder.

“Never? You’ve never cared if someone called you names or made fun of you?” Arya asked and wonders what if would have been like, to not care what her mother or sister or stupid Jeyne Poole thought of her.

“Well,” Gendry began, shuffling in the saddle to find some comfort. There was a stiffness in his shoulders, one that begged to cover his body but he creaked, pushing it away like rust on hinges. “When I was younger, I used to. All the older boys... they used to make fun of me, call me names, said I was stupid. Before my Ma died, it didn’t bother me as much. After she passed, I was so angry and upset and if someone even looked at me wrong, I would hit them.”

Arya tried to imagine that, to imagine a young Gendry with soft, ink black curls and big blue eyes, not yet grown into his height; it was hard to remember he wasn’t that much older than her, maybe three or four years, give or take. He had always seemed to calm, stoic even, and she remembered how he was when she first met him, lips sewn together and speaking when being spoken to, no more, no less. She pictures him at the age of five, pink cheeked and knotty hair, wide and wild eyes with those long, dark lashes. It’s so hard to connect what she has in her mind to the man that sits in front of her.

“What happened?” She questioned, curious and wanting to dig, to know more. That uncomfortable Gendry wore was shrugged from his shoulders.

“Tobho Mott took me in. I beat swords instead of the other boys, I got taller, stronger and they left me alone.” It seemed so simple, clean cut and clinical.

“But, you do feel upset, don’t you? If someone called you names, made fun of you?” She thinks of herself at being so young and knobbly kneed with her eyes too big for her face, like a foal trying to stand. Gendry looked down to wiry, coarse hair that runs along the horse’s neck, nearly as black as his own. Arya can see the age old hurt that was like her own. The conversation feels so intimate, too much so that she worries about being over heard. Arya wished, not for the first time, that it was just the two of them, that they had managed to run off, to live like outlaws together, only needing each other.

“Of course I do, but if they call me bastard, they’re right, aren’t they? If they call me stupid, they aren’t wrong either; I can’t read, I can’t write,” his voice is heavy and low, refusing to meet Aryas gaze and she wanted to reach out, make him look because she wanted him to know that all those people shoved down his throat were wrong and that he was such a good, kind and strong person. He was more than them, than those stupid lords and bullies. He was so much more to Arya than she could comprehend. “If they’re telling the truth, how can I say that it’s all just lies?”

And then she doesn’t care anymore and her hand darts out and it finds itself over his, her body angling itself in the saddle, threatening to fall off but her grip is sure, steady atop of Gendry’s hand that is clenched around the reins. Her horse protests and moves them closer, upset at being at such close proximity with Gendry’s own beast. Her fingers are strong and his hand is warm, burning into her palm and rushing up her arm to her cheeks, heat beneath the surface. First, his eyes are locked onto her smaller hand, pale in comparison to the golden hue of his own before it runs up along her arm, stopping briefly at her shoulder before moving to her eyes. She’s stone and unwavering, sure.

“You’re more than that,” she said, strong despite the red in her cheeks, the pink moving so its dipping into the bridge of her nose, frosting the tip. “You can make the best sword I’ve ever seen, you can make the most beautiful objects from steel that not even the finest smith in Winterfell can. You protected me from Lem and Hot Pie when they were bullying me.You never told anyone about who I was and you were kind to a total stranger when you didn’t have to be.”

Her hand tightened and Arya tried, tried, to get through the jumbled mess of her thoughts, the knots and snags that caught her words and prevented them from stringing together a comprehensible sentence because she’s angry that he’s been treated like this and upset that he just doesn’t know what she knew him to be: one of the best, kindest people she had ever met. _How can I let him know how I feel when I don’t even know?_ He waits, staring, and Arya unglued her tongue from her mouth.

“You’re a good person Gendry, more than those words what those pieces of shit have ever said to you.”

There’s a pause passed between them and Arya briefly wondered if the others were watching but couldn’t find it within her to care anymore; _let them stare_ , she thought defiantly, so unlike herself. For Arya, all that mattered was Gendry. At that moment, in her world, all that could matter was Gendry because he had been by her side, had stayed with her through it all and hadn’t left her, had trusted her, cared for her. And she trusted him, cared for him too, more than she thought possible, more than she could have ever thought. That pounding in her chest echoed, a whispering turning to a shout that was foreign to her, something she didn’t have a word for. He stared, blue eyes and so much _more_ , at at Arya and felt that rush of heat, that pinkness in her cheeks, a dryness in her mouth and that knot in her stomach, but lower. And there was red in his cheeks too, eyes darting someplace down too fast for her to see before moving from her eyes to her cheeks, the mess of her hair while a smile settled on his lips, those _damned_ lips.

“You’re not too bad yourself, Arya,” he finally spoke, breaking the tension and a breath flooded Arya’s lungs, one she didn’t know she needed until that pain in her chest began to scream. Arya pulled away, slowly and linger, fingers stretching out for _just that bit longer_ before she sat in her saddle again. She didn’t even notice the silence around her, too caught in her own bubble.

“Careful, Gendry,” she tisked, that playful mood which she had thought was gone forever, now returning. “That was almost a compliment.”

“I have better ones to use, so don’t get hung up on that one,” he snorted and Arya laughed, thinking, yes, for that brief, fleeting moment in a forest far from the horrors of the world, life was good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, crawling through months of tests, depression induced writers block, plain depression and a few mental breakdowns: hey guys here's a new chapter
> 
> This is a chapter i've been working on for the past two months and I finished it today, no editing, and I have my mocks this week (read: in two days) and then it's my leaving cert exams which are very important. 
> 
> I feel like I should probably let you guys, the readers, know that when I don't update for months, it isn't intentional. It isn't just because I'm lazy (I mean I am, there's no doubt about that) but I'm someone who suffers from mental health problems. I've had a very rough few months; it hasn't been easy and it's getting worse. I love this story a lot, I use it as a form of self therapy, whereby I sometimes use Arya as a way of sorting through my own feelings, hence the reason her thoughts are a lot darker than in the books. Only problem is, Arya is slowly healing and I'm... not. I only hope to tag along on this journey with her and maybe heal myself in the process. 
> 
> But! I want everyone to know that I cherish every single comment and every kudos so much! They bring a smile to my face on days where I don't think I can get out of bed, or when I feel so blue until I see the lovely, beautiful words of encouragement you guys leave when I doubt myself as a writer (@my english teacher: you may have a PhD in English but my uhhhhhhhhhhhhh hundreds of readers and their comments say that my writing is pretty neat.)
> 
> A happy 2018 to you all and may all good things come your way!
> 
> (also I've noticed that I switch between past and present tense in the chapter so sorry)


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